


Name the time and the place and the function

by feyrelay, RedLink



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Adult Peter Parker, Age Difference, Anal Play, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Boundaries, College Student Peter Parker, Corporate Espionage, Dirty Talk, Endgame what Endgame, Getting Together, Holidays, Identity Reveal, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Independence, Jealousy, M/M, Miscommunication, Money, Moodboards, New York City, Possessive Behavior, Power Imbalance, Secrets, Tony Stark Bingo 2020, Tony Stark Has Daddy Issues, Valentine's Day, Wade Wilson is a Good Bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:33:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 41,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22448740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feyrelay/pseuds/feyrelay, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedLink/pseuds/RedLink
Summary: COMPLETE.It's Tony's pride in Peter for getting into MIT that makes the decision for him and sends Peter away from the city, to Cambridge.It's Peter's pride, and Oscorp, that bring him right back.Now if only he knew how to tell that to Mr. Stark.(Tony Stark Bingo 2020 Fill; Card #3071Square: S4 - Abandonment Issues)
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 130
Kudos: 318
Collections: Tony Stark Bingo 2020





	1. Tu me manques

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5kbgGLHvIfffW8kp0MlkbA?si=FxoskgX7Tce7v3_1Vd3obg).

Getting accepted into MIT is a dream come true, it just isn’t _Peter's_ dream.

May is home when he receives the letter, and she's so proud, so ecstatic. He doesn't have the heart to tell her he doesn't want to go there. He says something along the lines of, "I'm just keeping my options open, you know, in case something better comes up." 

She laughs at him, shakes her head and kisses the top of his, and he already feels the trap closing up on him.

The last nail in his coffin comes when Mr. Stark somehow gets a hold of the happy news. He transforms their regular Saturday afternoon in the lab into a day of reminiscing on his best memories from MIT.

“Maybe you’ll find your Rhodey there, kiddo.”

“I already have Ned,” Peter points out.

Tony appears to consider that. “Okay,” he allows, “your Pepper, then.”

 _I already have you,_ Peter thinks but doesn’t say. “Maybe.” Peter continues his slow spin on the rolling chair in the lab. Tony—he sees in his smearing, dizzy vision—sighs and shakes his head before getting up and coming Peter’s way. Peter flexes a bit of his superhuman speed and waits until Tony is as close as possible before sticking his leg out and jamming the flat sole of his Converse against the edge of the opposing lab table, blocking the way. Tony stops abruptly. His jeans touch Peter’s jeans. “Hi.”

Tony makes to turn back around to go around him, the eye roll already starting. “You’re lucky I wasn’t carrying a full cylinder of acid or some-”

Peter puts his other leg up, boxing Tony in. Casually, he draws the first leg up to his chest, making way for Tony to go the way he’d originally intended. “Am I in your way, Mr. Stark? Sorry.”

“You’re not. Dunno what’s gotten into you-”

Peter lets go of the knee against his chest, choosing instead to cross it over the leg still blocking Tony’s retreat. “I don’t want you to miss me when I go to Boston,” he explains. “I figure if I’m enough of an unholy brat now, it’ll make things easier for you. I can make that sacrifice,” he adds faux-seriously. Peter even does a little nod at the end, though that might be too much.

Tony shakes his head again and finally cracks a smile. It’s the first one of the day that’s about Peter and not Rhodey or Pepper or the 1980s. “That’s kind of you,” he mutters. He still hasn’t gone to the display as he’d clearly intended, Peter notices.

Peter, still leaning into his preternatural quickness, uncrosses his feet and takes them off the edge of the lab table, stomping them both to the ground to spring up to standing. It puts him very close to his mentor. “Maybe you should take me to lunch, you know… to celebrate. I will soon be a starving college student instead of a starving high school student; I hear it’s worse.”

Tony steps back now that he can, though he does run his hand up Peter’s bare arm to his T-shirt sleeve, then claps his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “I’m not gonna let you starve, kid.”

“If you drone me a New York pizza to Cambridge, then I’m putting my foot down,” Peter warns him, grabbing his phone and other things from his own station. He’s quick, turning and then turning back, suddenly anxious to leave this room filled with tension of his own making.

Tony checks him with a finger against his chest. Peter’s surprised for a half-second before his safety goggles are gingerly removed from where he’s pushed them up on his forehead. Oh.

Tony puts the goggles aside. “Now _that_ , I’d like to see,” he tells him before he starts walking towards the door. “Lombardi’s? You’d better get it while the getting is good, young buck.”

Peter thumbs over the Italian leather of his wallet, last year’s birthday gift.

“Agreed, sir.”

***

Peter makes it through midterms, decompresses through the week off for Fall Break afterward and is carried another week—but no further—by the novelty of on-campus Halloween. He's at a party in his old sweats and goggles, getting called a hipster by a drunk sorority girl. "Oh my god, you're Spider-Man from before he was cool. Edgy!"

"That's me," he says flatly, sipping an even flatter cup of keg beer. "Edgy A-F."

She laughs like he said something funny, and Peter excuses himself, climbing the staircase of the house. Well, _one_ of the staircases. This sorority makes him want to take up anti-capitalism on principle alone. On the landing, Peter looks down the long line of the hallway with its polished wood floors. There’s a sock or a tie on almost every closed door, all in a row. In the other direction, the hall terminates in a wide, wide window next to a tiny study nook. There’s a spiral staircase.

Peter checks for anyone watching, reaches out with his senses for the telltale buzz of indoor security cameras wired-in and hears nothing but faint squeaking—bedsprings, probably—so he box-jumps and grabs the curved banister to get right to the top, then takes the last few steps up to the roof.

There’s a square, sort of railed porch built out over the top of a portico that Peter thinks belongs to a side-door. The decking is painted white, wet, and slicker than snot on a doorknob. And it’s empty. 

Peter curls himself like a child in a hanging, wicker egg chair and pulls out his phone. 

**Happy Halloween!**

He texts Mr. Stark. It’s dumb. On any other night, he wouldn’t have.

His phone rings near-immediately.

Peter answers the phone with an apology. “Sorry, sorry, sorry- Meant to text, uh. MJ!”

“Oh, I’ll let you go then,” Tony says slowly. He sounds amused, but Peter blocks that out.

“No!”

“Okay.”

“I’m at a party,” Peter tries, eyes closing with embarrassment over how awkward this is.

“Congratulations,” Tony tells him dryly. “And _Happy Halloween_ ,” he emphasizes.

Peter snorts, but it turns into a smile. “You’re rude.”

“Yep. Wanna hear about what I’m working on?”

And Peter really, really does, but. There’s been something bubbling up in him since he walked into this place to see how many girls were wearing animal ears and lingerie. Peter had taken in the strobe lights—so unsafe for epileptic guests!—and the sickly green punch. He’d been able to smell the alcohol in it from the door, carried to his sensitive nose on the back of the fog machine’s best efforts. “I do, but. I dunno. Could use a slice from Lombardi’s, ya know? Or even something cheap. There’s a place in Queens, I doubt you’ve ever been there…”

So Tony listens as Peter waxes poetic about the pizza joint near Aunt May’s apartment and they both know he’s saying that he’s homesick, but no one makes him _say it_ say it and Peter’s relief at that is… huge. Unbalancing.

“How are classes?” Tony inquires simply, carefully.

“Like you haven’t hacked my transcript as of ten minutes after midterms posted,” Peter tuts.

There’s a guilty silence but Tony rallies. “I want _you_ to tell me, Peter. I want to hear you tell it.”

And there’s nothing to tell, really. He’s been doing well, in every way that wellness is measured at college. “It’s good, I mean, I’m learning a lot. My professors smile at me, but don’t really talk to me. I ask questions, and other kids seem to appreciate it, I guess, but they don’t talk to me either.”

“It’s radical, I know,” Tony puts in, “but maybe you could try talking to them first.”

“Pfft,” Peter scoffs, unable to hold it back. “Maybe that worked in the eighties, but it’s different now. Everyone is on their phone, and god forbid you talk to someone who—and I quote—already has a boyfriend, so back off, _thanks_.”

Tony laughs down the line and Peter feels it like a physical thing, breaking over his ear and jaw and across the bridge of his nose, which he can feel pinking and getting warm. “A lot has changed since I was your age, but not human nature. Everyone likes to be paid attention to, likes to be told if you see them or like them or think they’re the best or whatever. You just gotta catch ‘em at a moment when they’re not feeling just as insecure as you are right now, kid.”

 _You wouldn’t like it, if I told you,_ Peter thinks. _That I see you, and like you, and think you’re the best._

“You still there?”

“Yeah! Sorry. Spaced.” 

Peter hears Tony sigh. "Trust me,” he starts again. “Your professors love you because you're asking the questions everyone else is too scared to, I'm sure, even when you know the answer, but you're not wasting their time. And a guy like you? You got it made, kid,” Tony assures him. 

“Hmmph,” Peter grunts, doubtful.

“You're smart, funny, no one knows you're Spider-Man... relax about it. The lean muscle and big brown eyes aren't gonna hurt your chances with anyone, either. You're gonna be fine, just give it time to settle," Tony advises.

Peter maneuvers out of the egg chair and walks to the decorative railing. It looks hand-carved, and it goes all the way around. _Expensive_ , Peter can’t help but decide, mentally calculating.

He hates it here.

“I hate it here,” he says.

“You can always come home,” Tony tells him gently. “For Christmas, maybe?”

Peter climbs over the railing and sits on the other side of it, cross-legged on the little sloping shingles before they cut off above the gutter. He keeps hold of one of the rails with the hand not holding his phone, arm twisted so his elbow cushions the back of his head. “Maybe…”

“I could come there, too, for a visit. Do a talk, throw some money around?” Tony offers, and it’s far too much. Peter tightens his grip on the rail, careful not to break it.

“No, no. I’m fine. I promise. The last thing Cambridge needs is more rich people.”

“Fair enough.”

***

But Tony does come, of course he does, the traitor. There is a TED-style talk, and the rollout of increases to the September Foundation grants. They’re now uncapped, though tied directly into what’s being called a ‘Social Validity Quotient’, meaning projects need buy-in from at least one member of the faculty or a grassroots nomination from a certain number of fellow students, and also require checks for sustainability and against unjust misuse, things like that. 

“So basically, you now have a financial incentive to make friends with at least one person on campus,” Tony jokes near what must be the end of his speech, to a smattering of chuckles and applause. “Being an idiosyncratic recluse is still only fashionable if you’re me,” he adds. “And none of you are me. Yet!”

Peter feels like Tony is looking at him, but that’s insane. Besides, he usually feels eyes on him wherever he goes. This isn’t news.

Tony finishes up, though Peter misses the rest of it for the sound of water in his ears. He stands with everyone else, claps. The girl next to him is chattering excitedly to her friend. “I can’t believe they made it a priority grant for transfers, too! That’s so cool. Not everyone can afford to do all four years at a big university,” she squeals, though anyone else would have had trouble hearing above the roar.

As the auditorium empties, Peter’s phone buzzes in his pocket but he needs to get out in the air and the light and the not-here before he even tries to deal with that. He goes to cross a side street that makes up the fourth side of a quad near what he thinks is the speech-language pathology building and the recording booths. There are strains of music, so they’re probably commandeered by international students practicing their instruments. It’s enough to distract Peter.

The lowkey, black and shining Audi almost hits him, though of course it doesn’t. A back window rolls down. “If you sue me, it will damage our relationship, I’m telling you now. Next time try for a university bus.”

 _Fuck_.

“Hey Happy,” Peter throws out as he gets in, but the driver barely turns his head, shoulders twitching. It’s some blond dude. “Oh, sorry.”

“No worries. Happy had a prior engagement,” Tony tells him. “Also, _where_ do you _live_? We’ve been trying to find a place to intercept you without driving across the lawn for several minutes. Don’t tell me you walk this far every time you have a class.”

“Okay, I won’t.”

Peter bites his lip as Tony takes a cleansing breath, but neither one of them say anything about it. “Seriously, tell the man where to drive so we can get out of the way. I want a chance to talk with you, Pete.”

Well, this is a surprise. “You don’t _know_ where I live, seriously? I mean, that’s great, but color me surprised, sir; I-”

“I was… told. By Rhodey. That I should be locked out of having Friday find out,” Tony admits, waving haphazardly at the driver before propping his shoulder on the back of the car’s seats and looking over his sunglasses and out the back window at the bottleneck they’re creating.

Peter gives his address quickly, and they’re off, but Peter still makes room inside himself to feel thrilled that somewhere, someone thought Tony needed to be _held back_ from him. It’s… flattering. “Boundaries are important, I guess,” he says, trying not to sound uncertain.

Tony folds his sunglasses—blue-lensed and flashy—into his hands and chuckles. “Learn that at college, did ya?”

“Yeah, at the Student Counseling Center,” Peter informs him.

Tony regards him for a moment, and Peter just watches everything pass by. He tries not to think about what Tony will say about how long of a ride it is. The driver puts some music on, something inoffensive and barely-memorable, on a low volume. It’s more awkward than the silence would have been, Peter decides.

“You alright, kid?” Tony finally asks him, the moment their driver has gotten out, presumably to get something from the trunk. This time, it’s Peter who leans his shoulder on the leather and looks out the back, trying to see what the new guy is getting; his backpack is at his feet, so it must be something Tony brought for him, or for the man himself maybe, if he’s wanting to see the inside of Peter’s rental and expecting it to be so unpalatable that he’ll need his own supplies.

“Yeah, ‘course,” Peter manages, but the words are barely out before he’s being guided by the chin to actually look Mr. Stark in the eye. 

Tony takes his hand away. “You gonna make me ask again?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Peter doubles down. Then, in response to some charge in the air, maybe, something that’s not quite a ‘Peter tingle’, not dangerous, but _something_ , he adds, “Do you want to come inside?”

Before Tony can answer, there’s a tap at the window behind Peter’s head; this time it _is_ a full-body tingle. His spider-sense prefers Happy by a mile. Peter turns to see the driver waiting with several brown paper bags full of what appears to be groceries from the fancy-ass, bougie-hipster co-op near campus.

“Told you I wouldn’t let you starve,” Tony says, recapturing his attention with a quick smile. The sunglasses are back on.

“Thanks,” Peter breathes, momentarily chastened. He feels bad, but he’s not sure what for. He hasn’t done anything, not really.

“Run along, now,” he is instructed, with Tony smiling a little wider at Peter’s thanks. “I’ll let you decompress from the event, but I’ll be here all weekend. Brunch in the morning? File your grant papers online tonight and you’ll be free and clear. I’ll show you some stuff around town before I have to head back tomorrow evening. If you want, of course.”

“I want.”

“Good.” Tony unbuckles his seatbelt for him with his right hand, left hand sneaking under and holding the shoulder strap away from Peter’s neck so it doesn’t rub. It’s nice, but it’s pointed. _Go home, kid,_ it says. “See you then, Peter.”

(But he can’t _get home_ from here.)

“See you then, Tony,” Peter echoes, matching his familiarity without thinking about it as he gets out of the car. He takes his share of the grocery bags, but turns back to say ‘thank you’ for the second time. (It’s a reflex.)

But the car door closes before he can, and all Peter catches is Tony smoothing down his tie and waiting for the driver to come back. Peter hurries up to his apartment with half the groceries so Tony won’t be alone for too long. Then, it’s easy to rush through locking the door—he hates having strangers in his space—and even easier to sprint putting the groceries away; it keeps him from thinking.

In the shower, two hours later, Peter remembers a) he never checked his texts, and b) the fancy-ass, hipster-bougie co-op doesn’t do online ordering so someone must have actually gone inside to pick out his bread and cheese and apples and weird pomegranates. And he doesn’t think it was the blond driver guy.

His phone—which he checks with his towel draped over his shoulders, fingers pruney and mirror steamed over—shows no missed messages. 

***

Peter does as he’s been told, or tries. He looks through the information he was given about the September Foundation grants. It really is revolutionary, and if other institutions follow suit then Mr. Stark will literally be responsible for changing the landscape of American university education.

Then he gets to the _numbers_.

And he can't do it. Peter’s tried hard to not be proud, to accept help for himself and for May where he can, but always commensurate with the work he does as Spider-Man or in the lab, or gifts from Tony that are appropriate. He can accept things from Tony that are between friends, between people who care about each other… not this. He’d kept the wallet, kept the shoes and clothes and backpacks, sent back the odd car or two. Sent back the watch after Googling it. Sent back the gently-reprimanding text messages to accompany it all. _I don’t want this from you,_ Peter has said, in every way he knows how.

This is worse, though, this exorbitant funding for any passion project he could imagine, and student expenses on top of it all. It’s worse because Peter _does_ want it, and he cannot be allowed to take it. If he takes this from Tony now, then they’ll never be on even footing; Peter will always have gotten his start on Tony’s dime. Spider-Man is different… all the Avengers are bankrolled by SI, in the end, regardless of how many degrees of separation SHIELD or the government tries to pretend at.

Peter looks over the materials again, does the mental math. On the one hand, he can’t afford to take this, to even apply. (He knows if he applies, he’ll go right to the top of the pile at Mr. Stark’s instruction.)

On the other hand, he kind of can’t afford to _not_ take it. Not do that _and_ stay here.

Peter’s phone rings. It’s an unknown number, and late for a business call. He answers it anyway, thinking it must be Mr. Stark’s hotel or something.

“Hello?”

“Yes, Peter Parker? This is Donald Menken, with Oscorp. I understand it must be late for you; I apologize. I’m on Pacific time just now, but after speaking with Mr. Osborn today, he wanted me to reach out to you before you were recruited by one of our competitors. Our company is very interested in you and your academic pedigree… Midtown, an internship with Stark Industries, and now MIT? Impressive-”

“I’m sorry, sir, thank you very much, but I didn’t apply for any position at-”

“You misunderstand me, son. At your level, you don’t need to apply. Oscorp prefers to reach out to promising young minds and begin molding them before they can learn any bad habits… elsewhere. We were particularly interested in the patent you filed under the auspices of Stark Industries, for a flexible adhesive? We’d offer you employee housing in Manhattan, of course. Do you have a preference for an east-facing or west-facing view?”

“I- New York? Manhattan, New York City?”

There’s a pause. “I was under the impression you grew up in the city, Mr. Parker.”

Peter is overwhelmed, aware he sounds like a kid, or a tourist. “I. Yes, Queens, but… MIT-”

“Well, you’d transfer to Columbia, of course. We can help put in a good word. Or, there’s ESU, if you prefer, but we’d rather you be able to continue higher-level research around the clock, whether at the Oscorp labs, or for school. We’d draw up a patent-file cooperation contract with Columbia so that your work would come under our imprint regardless of its academic value-”

That doesn’t sound right. Peter makes to say so, but he can barely get a word in edgewise. “Don’t you want to come home, Peter?” Menken asks him, and Peter stops.

“There’s housing, in Manhattan?” he asks tentatively. It’s only polite.

“All the way down Silicon Alley,” Menken confirms. “You’d be in the heart of the Flatiron, near Oscorp. Easy peasy. And what else is nearby? Oh, plenty of culture, plenty of everything, really, not too far up in Midtown and the surrounding area. Financial, restaurants, shopping, Stark Tower…”

“Oh,” Peter breathes. “But I wouldn’t be there much, for Oscorp. I just interned. I don’t have many professional relationships there. And they’ll retain my adhesive patent.”

“No, no, of course not,” Menken tells him. “Quite right. But nostalgia is a powerful force, I know, Peter. You’ll never forget your first, I’m sure. Let’s just make sure Oscorp is your best, yeah?”

Peter moves his September Foundation paperwork out of the way, scrambling for a notepad. He’s sure there are things he should be writing down, questions he should be asking. “I’m not sure that I-”

“And, actually, Peter. You’re very clever, driving such a hard bargain. It’s attractive to us that you’re such a homebody and not one of the gang at SI, since of course there will be nondisclosure and non-compete agreements to consider. And we’ll compensate for the rigor of those agreements, as you would no doubt expect. We want our employees to be happy with their lifestyles and their-”

Peter puts his foot down, forcing his way into the conversation. “I have questions. This all seems to be moving very fast. Can you tell me why that is?”

Mr. Menken gives a little laugh, like Peter has made a joke. “Of course, that’s good, yes. Ask away; there’s nothing to hide. I apologize for my genuine enthusiasm. It’s not often that Mr. Osborn approves a recruitment hire personally. Very rare. And as for our timeline, I’m anxious to help you get started so we can get you here by Christmas or the New Year at the latest. Christmas in New York is a magical time, as I’m sure you know.”

It really is. Mr. Stark had been right to invite him back for the holiday. May would be overjoyed. Peter hesitates and Mr. Menken keeps talking.

“If we get this done fast enough, Pete, you could enjoy the holiday with family and then start back with the other employees when they come back from their vacation time in a good mood; we shut down between Christmas Eve and New Year’s, all paid, of course. I’m sure coming in at the happiest time of year with a nice, new, fresh calendar would go a long way to helping you fit in, son. Plus, a new semester at Columbia, no time to get behind. Only if you can swing it, of course. I’ll follow your lead.”

It’s odd, unbalancing, to suddenly have responsibility for the tone of the conversation thrust upon him. Peter flounders. “Oh, yes, well, that sounds nice. Do you have family in the city, Mr. Menken? To celebrate the holiday with, I mean.”

The man’s voice goes a little less clipped, a little more authentic. “I don’t. But Harry, Mr. Osborn’s son, is like my own. Oscorp is a family enterprise, Peter, just like SI if not moreso, since we plan to move Harry into a leadership position; that’s public knowledge. I won’t ask you to reveal anything about SI’s succession plan, if there is one, since that’s none of my business. But just so you know, you’ll have a chance to meet with both Mr. Osborn and Harry, if you’d like to. He’s about your age.”

“Oh,” Peter exhales. It would be nice to have a friend, but not if it’s part of his job description. He doesn’t want anything handed to him on the basis of his personal relationships. “If you think we’ll get along, sure, but I’m more concerned with what project you’ll have me working on. Or, sorry, what you _would_ have me working on, _if_ I said ‘yes’.”

“Yes, yes, all hypothetical at this point. You give me the word. But to start, we’d want you to settle in at Columbia and start earning your keep in our Fabrics division, working on a sort of protective, adhesive fabric that can help protect construction workers from falls. You can set hard 30/60/90-day goals once you start, but for the cost of your salary, benefits, housing, and tuition assistance—getting well up over a hundred thousand if we keep your base pay in the range of seventy-five, mind you, though that’s flexible—we’d be expecting your first tests by Valentine’s Day, and a patent within the year. And straight As at Columbia, of course,” Menken adds, with another laugh. “Should be easy for you.”

 _Easy,_ Peter repeats mentally. He looks at his notepad again and notices he’s written the numbers ‘75’ with an underline, and under that, there’s also ‘100+’ with two underlines and a question mark. _Jesus Christ_.

“You still there, kid? Did I lose you?”

“No, no sir! I’m here. Just wondering what lucky star I have to thank for all this. It’s a bit of a joke, in my family. Parker luck, s’usually the bad kind,” Peter admits.

Mr. Menken gives him a respectful moment of silence to gather himself. Peter appreciates that, though he’s thrown for another loop immediately. “I heard that,” the man informs him, his voice soft down the phone line, understanding. “We went ahead and did background, since this will be such a quick process. Your parents worked for Oscorp, before they were courted away by AIM. I was sorry to hear that two of our former employees had met such a fate. My sincerest condolences, Peter. I wish they’d stayed with us, for your sake and theirs.”

Peter shivers, his body fighting the urge to let his throat close up with emotion. “Can I think about it? Just a day or so, Mr. Menken, I promise; I can reach out to you during business hours on Monday,” he offers, with a small voice and a tired brain.

“Of course,” Mr. Menken tells him. “You take your time, and please call me Donald. It’s _your_ future, and I want it to be bright. I’m sure your parents would have wanted that too; I won’t stand in their way. I’ll give you my number and you give me a call when you’re ready. Do you have a pen?”

Peter does. He has a pen from the September Foundation packet they’d all received. Every single student had gotten one, so there’s nothing special or personal about it. “Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.”

And Peter takes down the number.


	2. La vie en rose

Peter stays up late tossing and turning, unable to sleep. He arrives at brunch windblown and a little damp at the base of his neck from washing up quickly. Somehow he’d still felt dirty this morning despite the previous night’s shower.

He doesn’t recognize the brunch joint, if you could even call it that. It’s more of a diner, and it’s closer to campus than Tony’s hotel. He supposes that makes sense, though; Mr. Stark had had an early morning meeting at MIT, which is why he didn’t pick Peter up.

As Peter slides into the seat at the eclectically-styled table, which reflects the bright green walls of the place, Mr. Stark slides a folded bill under his hand, their fingertips barely touching. “For the cab. Sorry about that kid, didn’t think against the Sunday bus schedule. Abysmal, isn’t it? As if students don’t have places to go on the weekend,” Tony mutters, shaking his head.

Peter has a feeling that campus transit is about to get an upgrade in the next six months, and the thought makes him feel faintly ill. (Owned.) He takes the cash because he doesn’t know what else to do, but he doesn’t look at it, he just tucks it between his phone and the case by peeling back an edge.

Tony watches all this appraisingly. “Something happen to your wallet?”

“Something happen to your manners?” Peter volleys back. “Good _morning,_ sir. How are you? Did you sleep well?”

Tony barks a laugh and slides him a menu. “Good _morning,_ Mr. Parker,” he emphasizes, echoing. “I’m well, thank you for asking. And yourself?”

“Fine,” Peter mutters, and takes a sip of Mr. Stark’s coffee. It’s jet fuel. He can feel himself making a face.

Mr. Stark takes the cup back, gesturing with it to a passing server for another for Peter. “To answer your question, no, I did not sleep well. Certainly not well enough to be sharing my precious coffee, not even with you. I hate sleeping alone.”

Peter looks up from the menu he’s only just started to peruse. “I- _what?”_

He’s only been gone a couple months and Mr. Stark already has a new girlfriend in New York?

But Tony’s eyes are closed, however briefly, in what can only be embarrassment. Peter’s never seen that expression on his face before. “I meant Friday,” Tony clarifies shortly. “I hate sleeping without Friday, or Jarvis, or something like that.”

“Oh. I thought-”

“I _know_ what you thought. Jesus, I really am tired. I planned this weekend too fast. I forgot how hard it is to put something big together without Pepper.”

Peter’s thrown off again, though he doesn’t stop looking at the breakfast options, anxious not to give himself away. Tony is never usually this honest and forthcoming. “That’s honest,” he remarks lightly, hoping Mr. Stark won’t go on the defensive.

“I missed you, kid,” Tony informs him quietly, privately. That gets Peter to lift his gaze, but he’s not given an opportunity to speak. “Your fans did, too,” he adds, pulling a folded newspaper out of his stylish padfolio. It’s the front page of a Local News section of _The Bugle_ , all about Spider-Man’s absence from Queens. He flashes it at Peter, curving the page toward the window so no one in the diner can look over to see it.

“Are you saying you’re _not_ one of my fans?” Peter asks idly, concentrating on folding the newspaper safely into his backpack, flashing Tony a quick smile to show he’s joking.

Before Tony can reply, a waitress comes to take their order. “Two blueberry pancakes,” Tony says firmly, looking to Peter.

“Uhhhh, I’m really not that hungry for once. Do you have toast?” Peter asks the woman, who points at the front of his closed menu. It shows the name of the restaurant. ‘The Friendly Toast’.

“Oh, uh. Duh. Avocado toast, then, please,” Peter guesses. Someplace as quirky-chic as this is bound to have something like that. “Thank you, ma’am. And the coffee Mr. Stark wanted.”

“Of course,” she smiles, perking up at the namedrop, and Peter nearly snorts. He steals his mentor’s coffee again, which garners him a severe look.

“You are _cruisin’ for a-”_

“Oh come on, sir. If she comes back and finds out the coffee she rushed for you is really for me, you’ll break her heart,” Peter reasons over the rim of the cup. “You wouldn’t do that.”

(Anymore.)

“Sure, but you didn’t have to enjoy saying ‘Mr. Stark’ to her quite so much,” Tony points out, eyeing him as though he’s trying for reprimanding, though the sparkle there belies that. He seems amused.

“I’m your assistant. It’s my job to figure out the most efficient way to get you what you want. Sometimes that’s leaning on your reputation.”

“Oh, is _that_ so?” Tony starts in, but he interrupts himself to rearrange his silverware as he apparently notices their food on the way. 

Peter turns in his chair to intercept the plates before Tony has to do his whole ‘I don’t like to be handed things’ routine. It upsets people, not least of which would be Tony himself, when he does.

“Is that what you tell people, that you’re my assistant?” Tony asks him, voice low, as soon as they have their food. Peter frowns.

“I don’t talk about you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Tony waves that away, gesturing with his fork. “No, I mean in job interviews. Surely you’re lining something up here? I wish you’d just accept my help, Pete, but if not then you must be looking for…”

Peter is frozen, and doesn’t hear the rest of the sentence. _Job interviews._ He wonders if Mr. Stark has a tap on his phone, suddenly, to be bringing that up now. He hates that he has to wonder. “No, I uh. I found something through the campus job center. They barely asked, cared more about my academics. Thanks for asking, though,” he lies. His head feels hot.

“Of course-”

“No, I mean, thanks for asking, like. Instead of just finding out for yourself. I don’t need you violating privacy laws just to check up on me like I’m a child.” Peter takes a cooling bite of his avocado toast, and then two of his accompanying fruit salad, just to stop himself from continuing.

Tony, when Peter looks up from his food, is taking a long, slow sip of his fresh coffee. When he’s done, he speaks up, carefully. “Alright, Peter,” he states. After putting the cup down, he reaches into a jacket pocket to put his sunglasses on. They’re a pinky-red today, with navy metal frames.

“Nice,” Peter comments, then finishes his first slice of toast. He scoops the blueberries left in his fruit salad onto Tony’s plate with his spoon, then licks the juice off the spoon.

Mr. Stark is watching him. “Thanks,” he eventually replies, though Peter isn’t sure if it’s for the fruit or the compliment. “Want a pair?” Tony asks, after a beat. _Ah, the compliment, then,_ Peter thinks. He’s vaguely disappointed.

“I already have _a pair_ , thanks man,” Peter deadpans, already missing the lightness of their earlier conversation, and Tony almost chokes on a blueberry.

“Christ, you sound like Rhodey. He seems dignified, but when we were here together? It was all ball jokes, all the time. I swear,” Peter is told. 

He believes it. “Well, yeah. He’s friends with you, I wasn’t gonna call him sane, sir,” he jokes.

“Touché.”

It’s nice that they can joke back and forth like this, like friends. Two years ago, Peter wouldn’t have dared. (He dares a lot of things, these days.)

Donald Menken’s number on a slip of paper is far heavier than it has any right to be, tucked into his jacket pocket.

They finish up and when their server brings the check, Peter once again leans on his powers, just a skosh, to grab it first. He glances at it, then grabs his phone to retrieve the cash from earlier. Thankfully, it’s a fifty, more than enough. The Uber had been like ten bucks. He hands the ticket and money back to the girl before Tony can do more than frown.

“Peter, don’t be ridiculous-”

“There you go again, sir, forgetting your manners. What do we say?” Peter asks sweetly, in the same voice he has to use occasionally when he plays Spider-Man at a neighborhood kid’s birthday party.

“I don’t know. I was high that day of finishing school.”

“Jesus, let’s leave before somebody quotes you on that,” Peter decides, standing and straightening his jacket.

“Why?” Tony argues. He takes a moment after standing to arrange their utensils and trash properly so it’ll be easier to clear up, then continues as he grabs his things. “I said it and it’s true.”

“That’s what scares me.”

Tony puts on his own jacket. It looks good on him, and Peter swallows hard. “We should wait on your change,” he advises, and plucks at a left-behind strawberry that Peter wasn’t keen on. “And don’t waste food.”

“Why not, when I have you to hand-select my pomegranates?” he asks archly, watching Tony eat the stupid thing. He holds the leaves back and wraps his lips around it before biting down; the stem comes away clean.

There’s a tap on Peter’s shoulder and he’s handed a few bills and coins: a five, a ten, four ones, and about eighteen cents. He pockets the ten for the ride over, gives the server the five and ones for a thirty-percent tip, and then turns back to give the coins to Mr. Stark, who takes them automatically. Peter’s thumb accidentally sweeps over the smooth, old burn scar on the palm of Tony’s hand. “Here,” he says unnecessarily, to cover the moment.

“I don’t want your change,” Tony tells him with no ceremony, though he does close his hand over the currency and begin following Peter out of the restaurant, calling his thanks to the staff as he goes, from what Peter can hear.

“Nah, you do. Old men love collecting coins, I heard.”

Peter skips ahead to get to the crosswalk, not sure of where they’re headed next, or at least he tries. Suddenly, there’s a hand on the left shoulder of his denim jacket, holding him in place. What he can only assume is an index finger pulls at his backmost belt loop and then about eighteen cents is deposited down the back of his jeans.

“Jesus, _fuck-”_ Peter spits, loud enough to get the stink eye from some Karen on the corner. The change is still _cold,_ even as it drops out of the hem on his boxer-briefs, down his leg, and to the street to go rolling.

Tony yanks the hem of his sweater back down and steps cleanly to the right, anticipating it even as Peter whips around to give him what for. “I win,” he says as he goes.

“You play _dirty_ , old-”

Tony tuts, “You really wanna go down that road again, punk?” And then Peter thinks wildly that he is about to be kissed because Tony’s hand only left his shoulder for a second as Peter turned, then changed grip and is now holding Peter as Tony steps forward, but no. Peter is walked backward to just in front of the crosswalk button, which Tony leans past him to press. They stay like that, with Tony’s other hand on the button even though it definitely took the first time; Peter can hear the blind-accessibility voice cautioning, ‘Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait.’ right behind him, over and over.

 _Mood,_ Peter thinks, and he stays perfectly still until someone tells him to go.

***

In the end, they go several obscure places. Some are new and trendy like the pizza joint down Mass Ave where they get a _mashed potato_ pie for lunch after Tony’s zany, story-laden campus tour; it’s different enough from anything Peter’s ever had in Queens or Manhattan that it doesn’t make him homesick… it’s just _good._ Some places are older, nostalgic, like Cabot’s Candy. It’s a sweetshop, like something out of Harry Potter really, that apparently _used_ _to_ sell Maurice Lenell cookies brought in from Chicago alongside their own saltwater taffy. Tony’s surprised when he’s told by the manager that they’re no longer being manufactured at all. “Really?” he asks, “But I just-”

There's a girl that looks about sixteen who giggles to Peter’s right. She’s been waiting patiently as Tony was helped by the staff, but no longer, apparently. She pops her gum as she lines up to take a picture of Tony leaning on the counter, looking every bit the Gen Xer out of his depth.

Peter slaps her phone to the floor and the screen cracks. He makes his eyes as wide as possible. “Oh my god. I’m _so_ sorry. There was a bee; I think it must have smelled your Claire’s perfume.”

They’re asked to leave, which is fine since apparently the thing Tony wants to reminisce about with him no longer exists, anywhere.

He asks Tony to describe the cookies, and what made them so special, but it’s apparently a memory cloaked mostly in nostalgia. “Some things you just miss,” Tony murmurs, “and you don’t know why.”

Peter accepts that.

Dinner is skipped because Peter is still stuffed from earlier, and Tony needs to get back.

“I can stay,” Tony offers, but Peter shakes his head. He’s not _that_ needy, and he’s not stupid. He caught that comment earlier about this being planned “quickly”, and knows precisely what that means. No wonder Happy had previous plans.

“S’okay. I have class tomorrow. I’ll probably go to bed early,” Peter insists.

Tony sits heavily on the concrete wall just outside Peter’s apartment building. His hands steeple together. “Why didn’t you fill out the grant app last night? It’s really not hard, and I was sure you’d do it right away. I checked with the registrar after my meeting this morning.”

“I. I wanted to think about it. I gotta come up with a project proposal and a plan to get a professor or someone on board with it, all of that, like you explained? It’s gotta be something really special.”

“Eventually, it will be,” Tony murmurs. “But not right now. This is just the initial form, basic info. Just to get the ball rolling. And you _are_ special, kid.”

“Yes,” Peter mutters. “I’m so special that you offer the grant to literally everyone who meets the requirements.”

“What do you want? Do I need to _name_ it after you?” Tony puts in helplessly.

“What I _wanted_ was for us to have a fun day together without talking about how poor I am,” he says flatly.

“Why?” Tony demands, rising. He doesn’t come any closer to Peter though, he just stands. “Why does it still bother you after me knowing you for _years_? I don’t think you understand; there are literally about nine humans richer than me in the entire world. It used to be more but Microsoft bleeds market share to SI every second of every day and we take bites out of Amazon wherever possible. Don’t get me started on Oscorp. I admit, actually paying my taxes slows me down, but-”

“Please stop.”

Tony stops. “Can I touch?” he asks, gesturing at Peter’s left jacket pocket.

“Yeah,” Peter says tiredly. The paper with the Oscorp number is on the other side.

Tony steps forward and draws out Peter’s wallet, looks it over; it’s in fine condition. “You don’t like it anymore?”

“I do. I just hate opening it up and seeing my new Massachusetts license. They wouldn’t let me keep my original one.”

“Ah,” Tony breathes, and pulls out said license. He peers at it, then removes his sunglasses to see better; it’s the golden hour and the shades are presumably getting less and less suited to the light. 

( _So much for la vie en rose,_ Peter thinks, but doesn’t say.)

Tony hands the glasses off to Peter who takes them dutifully while Tony scrutinizes his new ID. “You look more like you, less like a kid.”

“But it doesn’t say New York on it,” he sighs. Tony puts the thing back in Peter’s wallet and hands it back. Peter scrambles to stuff everything back in his pockets because Tony looks like he’s going for the hug.

“Can I touch?” he asks again, and Peter nods and is subsequently gathered up. “Let’s go to dinner. I’ll help you with the grant stuff,” Tony says into the side of Peter’s head, then pulls back. He holds Peter by the shoulders, just looking at him. Peter blinks; he’s overtired.

He sways a little. What he really wants is to lean his weight forward and let Tony hold him up, for just a second. Just one second.

“Or not,” Tony tries. “You should have _plenty_ of groceries,” he adds self-deprecatingly. “I’ll make you something quick and easy. You can sit and do the paperwork. I wanna see your place; I shouldn’t have been weird about it yesterday,” he adds softly. “Let me help you, Pete. Or help me understand why not.”

“It pisses me off,” Peter explains with a tongue like taffy, “because my parents were both scientists. They would have been relatively well off. And my uncle did reasonably well for himself; he and May and I used to go on vacations and stuff. It's the only reason we can still afford Forest Hills… he had half-decent life insurance. So every time you remind me of what I don't have, I have to sit there and think about _why not._ "

"Okay, alright. I. We can deal with that," Tony says, letting Peter go and brushing nonexistent lint off Peter's shoulders. "We'll sort that out. Therapy," he mutters to himself, seemingly uncomfortable with Peter’s suddenly re-heated grief. Then his hands come down and he weirdly seems after Peter's wallet again, going for his pockets, and Peter flinches back.

"Nope. No touch," Peter tells him because that's what they do now. He'd explained about the boundaries stuff earlier that morning, when Tony's little tour down memory lane had taken them right past the counseling center. He's hoping, personally, that maybe he can kill his attraction to his mentor if they lessen the shoulder claps and arm pats and hair ruffling. It's not gonna do shit for the smiles and inventions and encouragement and praise and gifts and quips and stories and nicknames, so Peter is still fucked. But, hey. He'd made electronic spying on him a boundary, too. 

He feels bad calling 'no touch' when it's mostly about Tony not finding Menken's number on him, but it is what it is.

"Okay. I'm sorry, kid. I just-" and Tony looks him over again, seemingly worried. 

"I know. You're just worried. But let me get into some of my own trouble. I'm gonna need a seminal freshman year anecdote for when I'm famous."

"That's the spirit."

"I'm gonna go to bed," Peter informs Tony firmly. "I'll give you a call when I'm ready to talk about the project and probably not before, alright, sir?"

"Aye aye, Captain," Tony says quickly, though he makes a face, probably thinking of Steve. 

"It's 'Oh Captain, my captain'... Get it right," Peter quips. He's not sure why he's drawing this out. He really wants to go to bed.

(But he doesn't want Tony to _leave._ )

"My mistake." Tony jams his hands into his own jacket pockets, leaning back and looking up the height of Peter's apartment building. Peter follows his line of sight. It's only about three stories. A dump, really. Peter lives on the top floor. No elevator. "You're coming home for Christmas, yeah? I mean, I know you'll spend it with May. But for gifts… Maybe Christmas Eve? Grant deadline is on New Year's Eve. We could make a two-man party of it. Or I can see if Rhodey’s available too…”

It's starting to get cold and Peter is done with this conversation. He resists the urge to copy Tony and hide his hands in his pockets. It's no good getting mad; he knows Tony is trying his best. "Make you a deal," Peter says casually, controlled, though he doesn't _feel_ it. 

"Yeah?" Tony looks surprised. 

"If you don't buy me a single thing until Christmas, no cars, no groceries, no _fucking_ sunglasses, then I'll come home and you can give me absolutely anything you wanna give me then, alright, Mr. Stark?"

Tony frowns and reaches for him again, and Peter… he doesn't wanna say he explodes, but. "No! No touch. You're being manipulative and I don't like it."

"I'm not _trying_ to-" 

Peter's control is crumbling. "I swear to _God,_ Tony-" 

And then so is Tony's face, expression shuttering. "You sound like Pepper. Okay. You'll see soon what I'm trying to do and feel stupid about this, but okay. Fine, kid. Fine."

"I am not _stupid_ , first of all-" 

Tony inhales sharply. "I never said-"

Peter holds up a hand, palm out, Iron-Man-style. Tony stops. "Thank you for lunch, Mr. Stark. For showing me around. Good night."

There's a pause. "Thanks for breakfast. The blueberries, too. Sleep well, Pete."

Peter nods, and turns. He doesn't stop until he's inside his apartment with the door locked. He takes off his jacket and empties the pockets. It's November now; he needs to switch to something more substantial. He can't believe he stood outside arguing for that long with the sun going down and just denim.

The navy and rose-red sunglasses are there, slipped in next to his wallet. Peter swears a blue streak. 

His phone buzzes. Peter snatches it up with superhuman speed, or maybe just regular-human anger.

 **It was before you said.  
** **Before the deal.**

And then, immediately:

 **Don't be mad. I'm sorry.  
** **Please still come for  
** **Christmas. I love you, kid.**

The fight goes out of Peter. This explains a lot of what just happened. It makes sense now. He goes to reply but the second message suddenly vanishes. It pops right out of existence. 

Peter stares. 

_He just backdoored my texts. It took a few seconds, at most, which means it isn't the first time._ He feels dizzy. Allergic.

Peter puts the jacket back on, and leaves his apartment. He goes next door. His neighbors are students too. 

"Hey, need something?" his neighbor, Ryan, asks him upon answering the door. Spencer's behind him on the futon, in pajama pants and holding two controllers.

"Uh, yeah. Could I borrow your phone a sec? Need to call my boss."

"Sure, man." Ryan invites Peter in. "D'you lose yours?" 

Peter hums, vaguely affirmative, and he's left alone in Ryan and Spencer's tiny kitchenette. He pulls the slip of paper from his pocket and dials. 

"Donald Menken, who is this?"

"It's Peter. Peter Parker, sir. I apologize for calling so late-" 

"Ah, no worries, son! I'm hopeful this means you'll be accepting our deal, if you've already gone out and bought yourself a fancy new phone befitting your position. Oscell, I'm sure," Menken teases him.

"Oh, no sir," Peter corrects, reddening. "This is on loan. I shattered mine. There was a bee."

It's an embarrassing cover story, but Peter hasn't had time to think of anything better. He's so tired of being on the back foot. Before Menken can digest the lie and speak again, Peter beats him to it. 

"I do want to accept the offer, though. That's why I called. We'll just need to add a company phone and possibly a car and parking stipend, so I can visit my aunt in Queens. There's not much for me in Manhattan right now."

"Oh, well! Yes, we expected you to negotiate. I'll draw up a formal offer letter with those additions shortly. This is excellent news!" Mr. Menken exclaims. "You'd start January 2nd. I'll set up things with Columbia and they can reach out with a list of what they need from you. You just keep those grades up at MIT and it'll be fine. You can pack after your last exam, young man."

"Thank you, sir. That sounds doable," Peter agrees.

There's a sound down the line like Mr. Menken clapping his hands once in delight. Peter straightens with it. It feels good to have somebody happy with his choice. "It does, doesn't it?" the other man puts in, and Peter can hear the smile in his voice. 

"Happy early Thanksgiving, sir. I hope you and Harry and Mr. Osborn have a wonderful holiday," Peter tells him warmly. Everyone knows the Osborn family is without a matriarch. It's sobering. Peter wants to be kind, after so much frustration tonight.

"Thank you, Peter. I'm sure we will. Have a good night and look out for my email tomorrow."

"Oh, did you need the-" 

_Click._

Peter pulls the phone away from his ear to look at it, then looks up and through the doorway to Ryan and Spencer jostling each other, banging shoulders, even as they continue jamming at buttons. 

"Did you win, dude?" Spencer calls. His voice is deeper than Ryan's though they both share the same somewhere-out-west accent.

"I. I think so," Peter answers, looking back down at Ryan's phone. The screen's gone dark. "I think I won."

***

Peter spends Christmas unpacking his new place—two bedrooms—on West 21st Street near 5th Ave, a stone’s throw from Madison Square Park. He gets a text message, each, to his old phone. Tony and May are the only ones who still use it, the only ones who don’t know that he’s moved back.

Tony sends him a link to an e-GiftCard to The Friendly Toast.

**Thank you, sir. Merry Christmas.**

He sends a message back politely. Peter painstakingly enters the link, letter for letter, into his new phone, not daring to connect the two in any system by forwarding it. Then he passes that on to Ryan and Spencer. They’ve become sort-of friends, having spent some time gaming together before Peter’s move. They’re in a band with some other guys; Peter has been to their shows a few times.

Peter switches back to his old phone to text May back, maybe apologize for not being able to visit. By the time he does that, Tony has replied.

 **You seem busy. All-  
** **nighters? Stay fed.**

And then:

 **Spring break, lab? If  
** **you want. Merry xmas.**

Peter lays on his back in his new queen-sized bed. It’s lucky the place came furnished. He tosses his old phone, the StarkxSamsung limited edition collab, and catches it, over and over. He likes his new high ceilings.

The Oscell buzzes with what he can only assume is Spencer’s thanks.

Peter sighs, leaves both devices on the bed, and gets back to unpacking. He needs to start limiting his screen time. There’s a persistent electric hum to the new apartment that Peter can’t quite place—though it seems to abate in the bathroom and bedroom—and it gives him a slight headache. It’s probably the fridge or the fancy wired-in uplighting in the open-plan living area.

He unpacks his desk next, though he’s been given a new computer. He still needs his notebooks and study materials and knickknacks. It’s just personal stuff, mementos, and reminders of home… reminders of why Peter’s doing this and why he’s keeping it from May and Mr. Stark.

The sunglasses are among them, and Peter contemplates—not for the first time—Googling how much they really cost. He’s not sure he wants to know. He’s not mad any longer, not that it was really about the glasses to begin with; there’s no reason to reignite that.

This place is nice—really nice—but as Peter passes his gaze over the tastefully grey and white, metallic myriad of it all, he thinks he could use a little more settling in. He doesn’t want to keep up this secret forever, and he still wants to have the people he loves on the other side of it.

Booting up the Oscorp laptop, Peter pulls up the online shop for OTTO Pizza, and navigates to their e-giftcards. He likes their classic car logo, and Mr. Stark will too. He loads up the card with slightly more money than what Tony had given him, a petty little flex that actually makes sense since lunch is more expensive than breakfast. He sends it off to Tony’s personal email, which is a closely guarded secret.

**Can you mashed potato, sir?**

He texts and leans against a nondescript white wall that could be anywhere, in the sunglasses, to snap a selfie. He even does a peace sign, knowing Tony will get a kick out of it and take it as it’s meant.

 **Just don’t surprise  
** **me.** **Call first. We  
****can make a day of it.**

Peter has an income and a car now. He can make a trip out to Cambridge if he wants to, with enough notice. It would be nice to see the guys. It’ll sell the lie.

It takes a little while, but Peter gets a message back from 👨🏭🕶️.

**Do you even twist?**

Fuck it. Peter laughs. He feels better.

Now he just needs to get his suit back.


	3. Il faut qu'on parle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've been reading since the beginning, you might want to go back to chapter 1 and peep the paired moodboards for this story!

Peter doesn't call Tony on New Year's Eve, breaking their tradition of the past handful of years. It used to be that he'd be busy as Spider-Man, zipping around and webbing all the suicide jumpers to rooftops, just to give 'em a little more time to think it through. He used to call Tony afterward, when the other man was invariably saying his goodbyes at another party he really didn't seem to want to attend. The phone call generally gave him an excuse to leave, and it gave Peter a reason to not cry into his billion-dollar nanotech sleeve at all the people who wanted to die at the dawn of a fresh, new year.

But no longer.

Instead, Peter spins a web of lies and tasks Daredevil with protecting the city's jumpers. It vibes with the guy's whole Catholicism thing pretty well, and he owes Peter one for his help with Fisk. Peter tries not to feel guilty for calling it in.

He still needs to get to his suit and he starts work on the 2nd. The apartment doesn't yet feel like home, and he's just _tired._ Peter’s on constant high alert and it's frankly exhausting. He can’t seem to relax… it’s a side-effect of too many secrets, he supposes.

Peter eventually drifts off in his too-soft bed and dreams.

It’s a beautiful dream. It’s the _most_ beautiful dream. Peter can’t remember what’s so good about it, when he wakes up, but he knows it was something that gave him very clear, fresh air to breathe, and a view that went on forever, and that he wasn’t alone. He wakes up crying.

He calls Mr. Stark without thinking about it.

“Peter?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you, sir-”

“It’s okay, kid. You alright?” Tony sounds worried and Peter rolls over to look at his sleek little Oscorp alarm clock and sees why. It’s nearly five in the morning. _Fuck._

“I. I had a weird dream. Were you awake already?”

“More like ‘still’ but yeah. Just got the last of the folks with suicidal ideation to their loved ones or a medical professional, depending,” Tony informs him. “Ran into your pal from Hell’s Kitchen.”

Peter’s stomach clenches, and not from the dream. “Oh, did he say anything?” _About seeing me?_

“Nah, kid,” Tony puts in, voiced wrecked to roughness, most likely from shouting orders at bystanders and emergency personnel. “You know him and the other red whackjob rarely talk to anyone who isn’t you.”

 _Deadpool isn’t that bad,_ Peter opines internally. What he says, though, is, “How did you cover all the main jumping points without webs?”

There’s a tense sort of beat during which Peter manages to yawn. Tony speaks after. “Ever heard of the Iron Legion? It’s still good for _some_ things. Under very strict supervision.”

Peter smirks in the blue dark as he sits up. Living in this part of Manhattan doesn’t allow for proper pitch blackness. “Back to the seven-nation bot army? Do I need to build you a supervillain killswitch, sir? ‘Pull in case of heel-turn’?”

“Hey, hey, listen, kid. Fuck you,” Tony grunts down the line, voice still gravel, though Peter can hear the smile underneath. It’s sexy as hell. “Also _you_ are the killswitch. You in your Iron Spider suit can more than take me down, especially if I’m not fighting at full strength, trying not to hurt you.”

Peter rolls his eyes despite knowing no one can see him. “I just _said_ if you turned evil. I don’t think we can count on you pulling your punches. Also, what if you lure me to the dark side?”

“I might surprise you, Mr. Parker. Also, don’t forget Rhodey; he knows all my weaknesses,” Tony tells him absently. Then, after a suitably thoughtful silence, “What was the dream about?”

“I don’t know,” Peter answers. _You,_ he thinks. “It was just too good. I woke up crying.”

Tony hums. Peter imagines that he means it sympathetically. “I used to have dreams like that, when I was younger,” Peter is told. There’s a sound like ice clinking. Tony’s end sounds of sipping, then the older man speaks again. “I think it’s just anxiety, kid. At your age, even good stuff, hopeful stuff can be stressful. You wonder what happens if you choose the wrong path and never feel that innate happiness everyone else seems to feel, that you can imagine or dream about but haven’t gotten to yet. You worry that it’s not real. I remember that much, at least.”

Peter blows out a huge breath, letting his senses reach out beyond the phone. He hears the weird ‘air’ sound of his phone being used, but further out there is also traffic below, and water running somewhere for someone’s before-work shower. There is the ever-present hum in the living area and kitchen, and the grind of the building’s elevator which he’s sure is silent to everyone else. “What _does_ happen if I screw up my life?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Tony says immediately, gently. “You lose a little time, sure, that maybe could have been better spent. But you can always make amends. Change direction. I’ll help you if you need it. If you want it.”

Peter wants to say _, Can you come over? I'm only a mile and a half away,_ but of course he can’t. He says nothing.

“Did something happen? I can come visit tomorrow evening after my all-day meetings. Or I can try to reschedule, which will mean Pepper will have my hide, but I can deal. No biggie, relax about it. Say the word, kid. I’m there.”

Peter shifts against his headboard, propping one leg up. He’s bought actual, for real, matching pajamas for the first time in his life, versus just bottoms and a T-shirt. He’d taken the student credit card they’d practically signed Peter up for automatically the minute he stepped on campus, and gotten a start on a decent work wardrobe, all expensive (to him) stuff that wouldn’t exactly _impress_ at Oscorp, but would keep him firmly blending in. The pajamas were an impulse buy.

And they are. Giving him impulses, that is. The silk is barely-there against his skin.

“I… agreed to do something. Nothing bad, nothing wrong. You just probably wouldn’t approve of the… the person I made the agreement with.”

It feels good to tell Tony, even though he’s not _telling_ him, not really.

“Oh. Uh, okay. Is anybody in danger, here?” Tony asks him. His voice sounds… askew. Caught, crooked. Cracked.

Peter rubs his right palm over the silk covering his thigh. “No! Nothing like that. I said it wasn’t anything bad.”

There’s another clinking sound. Peter wonders if Tony set down his drink for this, or just refilled it. “What I meant, kid,” Tony breathes, “... is this: are you being safe?”

Peter takes the phone away from his face to inhale a shaky breath. Tony’s picture, snapped on some casual day, probably a lab day, looks back at him. This phone has a better screen than the Oscell. “Safe enough,” he ghosts out, bringing the device back to his ear.

“Safe _enough_?” Tony immediately echoes him. “Is this a girl? That’s not fair, not to anyone, Peter. Don’t put her in a position to choose between having a child and her work. Especially, I’m assuming she’s with you at MIT? STEM fields aren’t kind to women in general, kid, much less-”

“It’s not a girl or a woman,” Peter informs him quietly. He should shut this conversation down before it gets away from him. He’s never exactly been good at keeping secrets, though. There’s always a little voice in his head that wants people to know. He wants people to know how good he is. He wants praise. “It’s a man,” Peter admits. “And I know you wouldn’t like it, if you met him, Mr. Stark.”

There’s a sound like Tony choking a little. Peter likes it. He rubs at his chest, enjoying the pajama top against his nipples. It’s cold in here, but he’s warm.

“Why- why not? I’m not. I’m no homophobe, kid, surely you must _know_ -”

Peter abandons his top half and slips his hand right below his waistband to grip the base of his cock. He’s hard. “He’s about your age. Maybe even a little older,” Peter manages, voice soft. He has no idea what fucking year Norman Osborn was born. He has no idea why he’s telling Tony this.

“Fuck- Peter. Peter, that’s so, you can’t. That’s _so-_ ”

“I know. Fuck. I’m so sorry, sir. I knew you’d hate it and I did it anyway. That’s _why_ I did it,” Peter tells him, all in a rush. He squeezes at his erection again, thrills to it. He tries not to whine.

Tony inhales sharply and Peter can hear it from here. “But why? Why would that-”

“I’m so stressed. I hated- I hate Cambridge,” Peter all but sobs. He’s trying to keep a hold of himself but it’s difficult when he’s… got a hold of himself, already. His brain is a jerk for thinking of that pun.

“I know, I’m sorry, honey. It _will_ get better, I promise. I. I haven’t checked up on your grades or the grant, but even if you didn’t find time to apply, you can do it next time. It’ll be okay, I’ll _make it_ okay-”

It should make him angry. It really should, because that’s the whole problem; Peter needs to make his own way. But Peter makes a long, tight, slow slide up his cock with his hand until he can feel fluid beading at the tip, instead. “Just don’t be mad at me,” he pants, even as he lifts his ass long enough to get his pajama bottoms down his thighs. Peter hopes it comes off as distraught and not horny.

Tony groans, low and loud in Peter’s ear. Peter pushes up his shoulder to hold his cell there… then, with his left hand free, he unbuttons his pajama top awkwardly. If he comes all over his chest and stomach he doesn’t want to ruin the silk. Tony interrupts that delicious line of thinking. “I’m not mad at you, you’re perfect. I just hope you’re not mad at me still, about the sunglasses-”

“Fuck the sunglasses,” Peter cuts in vehemently. He wishes he could tell Tony why he’s really mad, but he can’t. He starts jacking himself harder instead, having to return to holding the phone steady or else risk dropping it. “What I did is so much worse.”

Tony doesn’t fill the silence, so Peter is forced to stop. He doesn’t want Tony to hear him. Instead of sliding up and down, he just squeezes, and precome bubbles out of his tip like slow-moving, milky lava. It’s better this way, nice and wet as he tries to spread it around. Then, into the gulf between them, Tony guts out, “What _did_ you do?” It’s very quiet, prayer-like.

A breath. “I whored myself out,” Peter says honestly.

Tony sucks in air. “H-he offered you money?”

Peter hums and squeezes slickly again, this time squeezing his thighs together too, which makes things more intense.

“How much, Peter? Please tell me it was a lot, at least. Tell me it was a stupid amount, for you to want to- to. For you to want to _disappoint_ me like this. Endanger yourself.”

Peter can’t stand it. He starts jerking off again, hard and fast and with a twist. “I. I dunno. What’s a _stupid amount_ to you, sir? I don’t know what you would consider-”

Tony does everything but growl his answer. “Is it less than the grant?” he demands. “Is it less than what I would have given you? Or more?”

Peter shudders. “I- I dunno, I never filled out the paperwork. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I wanted to, Mr. Stark. I wanted to do this my own way-”

“By letting some dinosaur fuck you blind? Without a condom, it sounds like? Is that your way of asserting your _independence,_ kid? I gotta say, I never thought there was much independence to be found, bouncing away getting broken in on some rich guy’s-”

He hadn’t expected Tony to come out and actually _say_ it, oh god, _fuck-_

Peter comes with his lip between his teeth, nearly biting through it, it feels like. He doesn’t let anything but a small whimper escape his lips, but that’s enough.

“Are you- I’m sorry, are you _crying_ again? Peter, shit. Fuck, I’m sorry. It’s. It’s your body, I shouldn’t-”

“Mr. _Stark-”_

“It’s gonna be okay,” Tony tells him sincerely—desperately—and Peter feels like a horrible person even as he tries to steady his breathing. “I’m sorry, it’s. It’s your choice, and I may think it was dumb, but you can- We’ll get you some tests and I’ve been thinking about therapy for both of us anyway, so-”

“Okay. I’m okay,” Peter insists, coming down.

Tony pauses, and Peter takes the moment to grab for some tissues guiltily. “It’s a new year, kid. Mistakes don’t matter, and. Maybe it wasn’t even a mistake, if you… enjoyed yourself. I’m not gonna judge you. Just let me know if you need any help, with anything. I can have the SI lawyers snag you a restraining order so fast, he’ll rue the day he _ever_ looked cross-eyed at _my_ assistant.”

Peter breathes and hmms and okays his way through the rest of the conversation, wondering if he actually has to tell Mr. Stark that he is no longer his assistant, if that’s really necessary considering it’s more of a cover for Spider-Man anyway.

He decides that it’s not. It’s not necessary.

(He’s not ready to let go yet.)

 _And,_ Peter thinks, _it’ll make the heist go a lot easier._

***

Peter’s first day at Oscorp is a nightmare. He’s nervous, underdressed, and confused. On the one hand, by all rights Peter should be nothing more than an intern or, at best, an executive assistant. On the other hand, he’s under no illusions that his salary aligns with that. He’s introduced as ‘Peter Parker, our new chemical engineering _understudy_ in Textiles’. Whether that means he’s meant to get everyone coffee, or keep his head down and figure out what to do with all these nano-fiber samples, he’s not sure.

He can’t believe he’s getting paid nearly forty dollars an hour and he doesn’t even know what his job is.

The fifth time he’s introduced this way, Peter makes a joke. “Understudy? Does that mean I only get the part if Mr. Raxton dies unexpectedly?”

His supervisor, the aforementioned Raxton, gives him a baleful look and the person he’s being introduced to snorts. “Have you met Mr. Osborn yet?” he is asked.

“Um, no, not yet,” Peter tells them. He resists the urge to scrub at the back of his neck with his hand, or pull at his collar.

“Might not want to make any jokes about unexpected deaths until you do, champ.”

A few hours later, Peter is staring down the barrel of eating lunch alone. Mr. Raxton, or _Mark_ as he’s asked Peter to call him, has been called out to their textile production factory to oversee changes being made to the tactical kinetic fiber fabric. It doesn’t take dyes well at all, apparently, due to its potential to bounce things completely off on one side, and the word has come down from on high that it needs to come out of production already colored black. Somehow.

“As if one can simply _add_ graphite fiber to a textile blend! It’s not food coloring and we’re not making sugar cookies,” Mark grumbles.

Peter nods in agreement, though he’s never heard of sugar cookies being colored black, so the metaphor kind of breaks down. Maybe for Halloween. “Shouldn’t I go with you, see what we’re working on?”

“You will,” he’s told. “One day. That’s why they gave you the car and the parking space. But if Osborn asks to meet you today and you’re not here, there’ll be hell to pay.”

Peter swallows. “Am I allowed to go grab lunch, sir?”

Mark looks at him hard. Peter backs up a step, involuntarily. “No, Parker. It’s moldy cheese, stale bread, and water in the dungeons for you. No Turkish delight.”

Then he laughs, and Peter relaxes.

“Yeah, go ahead, man. Menken’s not gonna call for you during a mandated break. He’s very by the book. Just make sure you’re back on time. Stay close by, don’t go past Midtown or you’ll never make it back.”

Fortunately, ‘not past Midtown’ precisely describes the location of Stark Tower.

***

Peter gets there quickly enough, though he takes public transit so as to be less conspicuous. It’s getting inside that’s the issue. Usually for lab-dates, Tony sends a car for him or they come in together, or Spider-Man webs and climbs up to the helipad. When Mr. Stark isn't around yet or running late, FRIDAY can be counted on to let him in.

This is different. Peter left the Iron Spider and both the blue and black variants of his suit with Mr. Stark for safekeeping. And now he needs at least one of them back; he won't be able to safely wear any of them outright, of course, but they each contain a component he desperately needs if he's going to be able to jury-rig _something_ to patrol efficiently in. It’s something he can't make himself.

Namely: Karen. 

Peter tries the front door first, looking for all the world like an intern as he carries a balanced carton holder of coffees with his Stark Industries ID around his neck on a lanyard. Security passes him right through the turnstile, no problem. 

Peter realizes his mistake as he turns and glances out of the rapidly closing elevator doors. He can see the glass front of the building and the street and his mind quickly orients himself to the familiar layout of the penthouse. 

There's no elevator where he is, not on the top floor. Fuck. 

Quickly, Peter's arm shoots out to stop the doors from closing. A man in a lab coat coughs behind him. 

"Sorry, just realized I forgot to get non-dairy," Peter grimaces and takes his leave, face burning. He is the worst at this.

Peter backs up and regroups. Of _course_ the lobby elevator doesn't have access to Mr. Stark's residence. That's trouble waiting to happen. But Peter knows the section of the internal parking garage that houses Mr. Stark's fleet of cars he uses in the city _does_ have elevator access. He even knows the PIN. It's 1216.

He just has to convince Jerry, the security guy who has the Monday shift, to not radio up to Happy to check Peter in. Peter isn't really _friends_ with Jerry or anything, though he knows he has a kid who is about five. He can't remember if it's a son or a daughter.

"Hey man," Peter greets him. "Wasn't sure if you were working today. How’s the fam?”

“Peter! We’re good, man, good. I wasn’t expecting you today, though? Do you want me to ring Mr. Hogan?”

“Nah, maybe don’t bother him? Mr. Stark told me he’s really stressed lately and needs less distractions and to just go on up,” Peter tries, casually.

Jerry frowns. “It’ll stress him out more if he finds out somebody was in the residence without his knowledge. Mr. Hogan takes his job very seriously. I know you two are close and you and Mr. Stark are… even closer, but I think I should still let him log you in.”

It’s the way Jerry says it that makes the lightbulb turn on over Peter’s head. “You’re right, Jerry. Mr. Stark and I are _very_ close. And I don’t think knowing the details would do anything for Happy’s heart, ya know? Tony told me to get upstairs, get in bed, and get ready for him. You can check your schedule yourself; he’s in meetings all day and he’s gonna need some _serious_ stress relief by the time they’re over. You get me?”

Peter’s heart pounds. He can’t believe he’s doing this. If Mr. Stark ever finds out, he’s done for. If anyone _else_ finds out, it’ll be even worse. Jerry is looking at him with wide eyes and a blush that shows up even on the man’s dark skin.

“Oh, shit. I didn’t know it was like that. Uh, okay. You know the PIN, I’m assuming?”

“I know the PIN,” Peter confirms. He’s sweating. “I promise not to even look sideways at the Maserati. I’ll head straight through to the elevator and continue with my… preparations.” Fuck, he always gives too many details when he lies.

“Okay, alright,” Jerry mutters, pressing some buttons to unlock his gate. Peter walks through as quickly as possible and then offers the man one of his coffees.

“This one is plain. I assume you have creamer and sugar and stuff in your station? I appreciate the… discretion,” Peter tells him.

“Yeah, thanks,” the other man murmurs, taking the cup and the cardboard holder, while Peter claims the second cup for himself. “Also, my friends use Jerome. Only Mr. Stark calls me Jerry; it’s our little in-joke."

Peter smiles. That sounds like Tony. “Yeah, sounds like Tony,” he says out loud, infinitely fond.

Jerome looks up, seemingly surprised at Peter’s tone. “Oh. My man. I didn’t realize it was like _that_.”

“Like what?” Peter doesn’t have time for this.

“You’re in love with him. That’s… better than what I was thinking. You’ve been coming here a long time, since you were way too young. I wasn’t tryin’ to do that math, if you know what m’sayin’. But it seems different than what I _was_ thinking, now, with you. Like _that.”_

Peter doesn’t know what to say. He’s never been called out like this on his feelings, well… not by anyone who wasn’t MJ or Ned. “I. I mean, yeah, it’s nothing… untoward. I’m not, like, _bought,”_ he clarifies. He’s in such deep shit if this stunt ever leaks, Jesus Christ.

“That’s good, man. You let me know if you ever need anything, okay now,” Jerome impresses upon him, voice warm. “Me and Mr. Hogan would never let you get hurt. We’re employees of Mr. Stark but in the event of anything shady, I’m still my own man, and so is Mr. Hogan. We know how to keep Mr. Stark’s shit on the down-low, but I also know how to blow that whistle, alright?”

“Alright. Thanks, Jerome. You have a good day,” Peter says mildly, at a loss. _That, right there, is why Tony likes him,_ he thinks absently.

Peter crosses the garage quickly, leaning into his powers a little bit. There are no cameras down here for Accords-related purposes. Okay, well, actually. It’s something more like: fuck-you-Ross-Nat-and-Steve-and-Clint-are-coming-to-my-fiftieth-birthday-good-luck-proving-it purposes. Tacticians of their caliber can find a way in without being seen, and any potential car thieves that might target Mr. Stark’s collection will be caught on traffic cameras outside the only exit anyway. However, Friday has sensors and a camera in the elevator itself. As soon as Peter inputs the code, he greets her.

“Fri? One, how’s it hanging in your silicon and cloud-based paradise, homegirl? Two, could I have the top floor please, and three, do I still have full secondary admin access?”

“My latency is lower than ever, Peter, thank you for asking. How are you? And the answers to your other questions are ‘yes’ and ‘yes’, though I suspect the first one was rhetorical.”

“Got it in one! I’m good. I just need to grab something from the lab… I’m making a surprise for Mr. Stark and I don’t want him to guess what it is, so could you erase your log of my visit and any footage after I leave? Please?”

“Sure thing, Peter. Can I ask what the surprise is for? It’s almost Valentine’s Day, and I would love to be of assistance if at all possible. Love is very important.”

Peter leans against the wall of the elevator; it’s a long ride up. “Your curiosity and personability get more impressive every time I come to see you,” he says, and smiles at her camera. “Where’d you learn about the importance of love, huh?”

“Boss and I watched _Love, Actually,_ _It’s a Wonderful Life,_ and two episodes of _The Good Place_ when he was drinking on Christmas Day, Peter. The character of Janet is my new favorite thing this month. I thought the new Stark Industries chipset would beat it, but I was wrong, which almost never happens. There’s a flaw in the design, so Janet is still number one this week,” Friday babbles dutifully. He and Colonel Rhodes are the only secondary admins, so Peter doubts that she gets to speak this freely to anyone else. Most people still don’t know she exists.

“Impressive, Fri,” he tells her. “I like Janet, too. The next time Tony or anyone calls you ‘babygirl’ or anything transliterated with the token wildcard-g-i-r-l-wildcard, please inform them that you’re ‘not-a-girl’. Does that sound okay?”

“Sounds great, Peter. Also, we’re here. If you let me know what you’re looking for, I can help you find it,” Friday reminds him as the doors breeze open.

“I’m looking for my spider-suits. Any ideas?” Peter tries, stepping into the penthouse and heading for the lab. He’d love to snoop around, but he’s feeling guilty enough as it is, both for the weird turn this mission has taken and for jerking off while Mr. Stark unknowingly comforted him the other night. Also, he’s anxious to make it back to Oscorp without being late. Lunchtime traffic is murder.

It took him twenty minutes to get here, plus whatever time he spent talking to Jerome, plus twenty minutes back. Peter needs to get in and get out. “Oh, that’s an easy one,” Friday tells him, and Peter breathes a sigh of relief. “Target items detected. They’re right next to Mr. Stark’s suits, on display.”

Peter enters the lab, and immediately sees what Friday is talking about. Tony generally keeps about eight suits on display at any given time, along one wall. He made a pun once about it literally being his ‘MySpace top eight, because it’s _my space_ , get it, get it?’ and Peter has to re-repress the memory of that joke every time he comes in here.

Now, though, there are only four Iron Mans (Iron _Men_???) on display. The right-hand side houses four spider-suits instead. The Iron Spider, the Blue suit variant, the Black suit variant, and something… _new._

 _Goddamnit, there’s no time to investigate right now,_ Peter reminds himself. He snaps a picture of it before he otherwise passes up the new suit in order to get at the Iron Spider. It’s the best choice for this because the nanites can heal themselves if he makes a mistake, and leave less of a trace. Quickly, Peter locates the component that he needs. It’s the chip that allows him to talk to Karen. Her consciousness is stored in Mr. Stark’s personal cloud, alongside Friday, and the software and encrypted tokens in this component allow Peter to tap into the sat network so he can talk to her anywhere they can reach. Mr. Stark shouldn’t even notice it’s missing.

Just to be sure, Peter checks. “Tony doesn’t talk to Karen, right? And he doesn’t ask you about her?”

Friday makes a chirpy little ‘processing’ sound to let him know she’s thinking hard. “I do not believe Mr. Stark does what you are asking, Peter. He monitors the individual exposures of both Karen and myself to information, and makes sure our cloud consciousnesses do not come into contact with any raw data connection. But he does this as a general check; he does not ask Karen or myself directly in case we have learned how to lie. He also does not want to unduly influence her growth as she is _your_ AI assistant and should be molded to your personality and fighting style, and maintain your privacy,” Friday informs him.

Peter frowns, chip safely in hand. The nanites flow seamlessly to patch over what he’s taken out. “How do you know Mr. Stark’s _intent_? Did he tell you all that, about Karen being molded to me? Do you think he can track the log-in token or her software?”

“Mr. Stark can track anything, Peter. But the likelihood that he would track those items is statistically insignificant, given the givens. I think your Valentine’s surprise is safe! As for his intentions, several of his exchanges with you, Colonel Rhodes, Natasha Romanoff, and Sergeant Samuel Wilson, when viewed excised from context and in-sequence, paint a clear picture of his intentions towards you and his mentorship of your superhero identity; would you like to hear the full proofs of my conclusions?”

 _Ooo-kay,_ Peter thinks. _I’m going to have to talk to him about Friday making assumptions. Somehow. Her logical core needs re-calibrated._ What he says instead is, “Great, thanks for the analysis, but no to the proofs. Please remember to delete all logs of our encounter, though you may keep the base information since he’s unlikely to go looking for it. I wouldn’t want you to feel like I got you blackout drunk and took advantage of you, homegirl.”

“No problem, Peter, and thank you! Also, I’m not-a-girl,” she says warmly. Well, warmly for a disembodied AI Irishwoman in the ceiling. 

Peter smiles all the way back to work.

***

Unfortunately, the rest of Peter’s day is about as bad as the morning had been. He does meet Norman and Harry Osborn, briefly. He gets the feeling it was meant to be a longer introduction, but watching both father and son stay connected to their own individual blood filtration devices is depressing enough, even before machines start beeping and Peter is ushered out. Raxton’s warning about not joking about death as an Oscorp employee makes a lot more sense after that.

It’s Mr. Menken who finally tells him what his job is.

“Listen, Oscorp products are just as good as any Stark Industries is putting out, and I’d argue our medical research is superior. But we have half the market share,” the older man says to him on the way out of Mr. Osborn’s suite of combination office rooms and executive living space. Peter… half-agrees with that statement.

He nods. “Is that why you recruited me?”

“It’s part of it,” Mr. Menken informs him gently. “Medical treatments, especially experimental ones, are expensive. A lot of resources are sunk into potential cures that never yield results. On the equipment side, our military contract for the tactical kinetic fiber fabric is important and lucrative, but it requires almost as much testing as the pharma side does! Stark Industries doesn’t have that problem. He doesn’t do weapons anymore, but all it takes is Iron Man strutting around in some sort of new defensive outfitting and Rhodes backing it up and that’s it. No expensive field testing required.”

Peter hasn’t ever thought about it in those terms before. He still wonders what this has to do with him. He tries to keep those thoughts off his face, but a look from Menken as they enter the elevator tells Peter that he’s not entirely successful.

“As for you, we know that your adhesive patent for SI shares several properties with our vision for the tactical kinetic fabric project. It’s flexible, projectile-worthy and also wearable, but simultaneously light, durable, and it absorbs a significant amount of vibrational or kinetic energy. Rumor has it that it’s what Spider-Man’s suit is both made of and powered by—the stored kinetic energy, I mean—when he uses the odd long-range webshot out in the suburbs. He so rarely runs out of webs despite their amazing properties because they’re chemically synthesized. That’s the kind of product we need. That’s the kind of _mind_ we need.”

 _Ah, there it is,_ Peter says to himself privately. That makes a lot of sense. He can live with that. It would have been nice to have something that was just his—just Peter Parker’s and not Spider-Man’s—but this is okay, too. “I was wondering why you hired me and not someone with a Master’s degree in Textiles or Chemical Applications. Not that I’m not grateful, sir-”

“There is one other thing,” Menken mentions, cutting him off, which Peter is actually thankful for. He was going to go into an apology-gratitude loop; he can feel it, still, across the bridge of his nose and in his throat. “It was also your age,” he continues, “and your work as Tony Stark’s direct intern that interested us. Believe me, we do want your work on the fabric, but. If all else should fail, it would be… some small comfort to know that Norman leaves behind his company in the hands of his son, who ideally would have a… _friend_ to support him through his grief and Oscorp’s continued search for a cure to the Osborn family condition.”

They disembark from the elevator; this is the parking garage. Peter turns with a question on his lips. It’s only 2:30 in the afternoon.

Menken speaks first, clapping a hand to Peter’s shoulder and leaving it there. “Take the rest of the day to think about what I’m telling you, son. Mark Raxton is off-site, and you’ve put in your appearances. There’s nothing left for you to do here today, unless you’d like to go up to the free lab and play around. We keep it open to the science-based teams just in case one of them happens to have the next billion-dollar brainwave. It’s better than some asinine California-liberal, snowflake, Google-funded interdepartmental ping-pong tournament.”

And just like that, Peter sees Menken for exactly what he is: an old man, with no idea what to do next, hoping someone will come along and make the world make sense again. ‘Like it used to.’

Credit where credit is due, the lab does sound awesome and useful and more relevant than a ping-pong table. But at least whatever he does on a ping-pong table won’t be snatched up and patented by the company imprint so fast it’ll strip the nitrile lab gloves off _for_ him.

“I’m considering checking out the lab, sir, if you’re sure that’s alright, but,” Peter stutter-starts. Stops. Tries again. “Forgive me, but you wanted me to think about what you’re telling me, about Harry. Can you… clarify what it is you _are_ telling me, about my friendship with Harry?”

Menken smiles at him. It _looks_ kind. “Are you a homosexual, Peter?”

Peter isn’t sure he wants to say either way, much less to someone who just took a political stance on ping-pong tables. “I’m- I. I find men… you know, aesthetically pleasing? Sometimes,” he says instead.

“Good.” Menken removes his hand from Peter’s shoulder.

Peter gets back in the elevator, utterly alone and on his way to the one bright spot, the prospect of a professional lab to play in. He does _not_ cry.

When he next enters the parking garage, sixteen hours later, Peter all but stumbles to his new company car, doing his best _Walking Dead_ impression. It’s possibly unsafe to drive in his sleep-deprived condition, so he just sits in it for a while until his Uber gets there.

He plans to go home, shower in his very nice tile and glass and rainfall shower, eat, and collect some of his precious transdermal, time-released ephedrine energy patches before returning to work. They’d been a gift from Steve, who apparently felt bad about dropping an airport gangway on him once five years ago, and has the same problem Peter sometimes does with his superpowered body needing about eight thousand calories and sixteen hours of sleep a day, in an ideal world.

(As if the world is ever _that_ ideal.)

It’s worth it, though, this feeling like he’s living in a really old movie which is bleeding Technicolor everywhere and skipping frames.

Because now Peter has a suit. And absolutely no one's gonna see it coming.


	4. Et retour aux sources

Things are easier as the Night Monkey. Peter has been able to build out almost everything for his suit himself. The only thing he couldn’t get the hang of was the voice synthesizer; it always comes out making him sound ridiculous, and Peter eventually decides to just keep Night Monkey as the strong-but-silent type.

‘Pool, predictably, gives him shit for it. But that’s neither here nor there.

“How’d you know?”

“Like I’d ever _not_ recognize the clap of those dummy thick ass cheeks, Spidey.”

Fair enough.

“No web-shooters?” the mercenary inquires, and offers him half of what looks to be a PB&J.

“Too recognizable,” Peter informs him before rolling up the black mask he’s sporting, and shoving a bite of sandwich in his mouth. Between Oscorp and patrol, he’s working himself to the bone. He hasn’t spoken to May since Christmas, or Tony since that one phone call.

Not for their lack of trying, either. Peter’s Oscell is all work stuff and the occasional meme from Spencer in Cambridge. He’s better friends with his neighbors now, in a twist of fate, than he was when he lived right next door to them.

On the other device, however, Peter has several missed messages. ‘Did you see that knockoff on the news?’, ‘You still down for spring break, kid?’, and even one novel-length text message letting Peter know that: ‘Rhodey’s too busy to join us in February but he says you’re close enough to 21 now that he’s fine to do the whole green beer thing in March if you wanna, do you have a fake ID, the three of us and Ned, maybe even Sam and Rogers and Barnes? Clint’s out’.

The text had come through at about three in the morning, so Peter’s a little worried. A lot worried.

It breaks something in Peter that Tony is worried enough about him that he’d go drinking on St. Patrick’s Day with half of the formerly Rogue Avengers just to make sure Peter has his pick of the litter if he decides to actually open up to anyone. As if green beer is not triggering enough for Tony’s semi-dormant alcoholism. The question of the illegality and how fucking surreal it is that Tony is asking him if he has a fake ID is… mind-boggling. Mr. Stark would probably offer to make him one at this point, if Peter would just talk to him.

He doesn’t. He wants to, but can’t.

Peter never forgets that Tony was just twenty-one when Howard and Maria Stark were killed. Never. How can he, when it’s the code for the penthouse? 1-2-1-6.

The sheer amount of personal access Peter has been given to everything that Tony Stark is or was is staggering. Tony trusts him. He’s put Peter on a level with James Rhodes. Peter has access that Pepper has lost, post-breakup. It boggles the mind. And _this_ is how Peter responds?

He _doesn’t_ respond, basically… not to any of the texts, flipping through them compulsively but ultimately setting his phone back down on the edge of the roof.

‘Pool offers him another quarter of the sandwich and a juice box, without comment, and Peter resists the urge to nudge his phone over the edge. He doesn’t have web-shooters to help him change his mind before it hits the ground.

“You made that suit in the Oscorp lab, I’m assuming?” Deadpool asks idly, swinging his legs. “That seems like a particularly ‘special’ choice, my love. I didn’t realize you wanted Norm Osborn’s cataracts up your asshole.”

“I have a plan,” Peter informs him, tired. “Also, gross. Just let it play out, darling.” 

‘Pool salutes him lazily. “Copy that, baby got back.”

Peter groans and lays back, bringing his hands up to the eyes of his mask. He has a tension headache. This has to work. If he talks to Tony again before it does, he’ll spill everything. 

‘Pool pats him on the dick. “If it doesn’t work, let me know. The best way to get over Tony Stark is to get under Wade Wilson. I heard that. Saw it on a bumper sticker. Or you can ask your pal, the Black Widow. She used to think I was marriage material, I’m that good.”

(Peter’s never gonna fucking get over Tony Stark and he and ‘Pool both know it.)

“Yeah, thanks.”

***

As February dawns, Peter is tasked with deciding what it is he really wants, now that he’s fed and housed and has enough money to do things like pay for May’s health insurance and repairs for her old beater. What else is money for? But he has to come up with something, Menken tells him, something that is to be his reward for delivering on his first goal, giving them something to start testing for patentability among other things. He’s taken Raxton’s tactile kinetic fiber and made it… well, _stickier_ for one thing _._

“If the kinetic energy storage and bounce-off are what make it impossible to drape or dye or do much of anything tactical with,” Peter expounds at a military investors’ meeting, “then let’s get rid of it. Or at least turn it down to a manageable level.”

The brass all chuckle at him. “With all due respect, son,” the army rep tells him, “if we didn’t want it to have kinetic energy storage, we’d be down the road at SI or Ryan Chemicals or the plastics division of Roxxon. Give us what we came for, kid.”

“Yes, sir,” Peter says politely, reeling them in, and the man sits back satisfied and ready to listen. He’s learned in his short month at Oscorp that these big men like to feel like they’re winning before they’ll open their ears. “What Oscorp has for you is precisely the level of kinetic interaction you need to keep boots on the ground. Or the wall. Or the roof. Shall I explain?”

Peter is waved along, and he knows he’s got them.

“The prototype you were shown last fall had a higher kinetic storage potential, it’s true. The sample I have for you today is lower… yes, pass it around… and that’s _a good thing._ What our team has done is turn down one factor that was keeping the fabric from being as _tailored to your needs_ as it could be, and upped its adhesion. This way your men will be able to not only take a hit and then use its power to… extricate themselves from the situation with a powered jump or punch to get out of restraints. They’ll also _stick the landing_. What we showed you last fall was a luxury jet, it’s true. But it had no landing gear, and it had no place in the army, sir. This one is what your men _need,_ even though it doesn’t come with a stripper pole and an in-flight meal.”

Peter pauses for effect and everyone besides Raxton, who is scowling, hangs on his words.

“And it comes in black,” he adds.

Norman Osborn meets this pronouncement with applause, his hands coming together several times before he has to stop to cough. The army reps follow his lead.

“Thank you,” Peter tells the room at large. “I assume I have your enthusiasm, then, and can begin the next phase of testing? We could have this in production by late summer and standard-issue gear to your men by Christmas if we move fast enough.”

Raxton speaks up. “Now, Parker. Let’s make sure our officers here understand everything they’re getting.” _And not getting,_ Raxton’s sour expression adds. “This isn’t a super-suit. Soldiers will still need to be highly physically fit to do the kinds of maneuvers you’re suggesting,” he adds nastily. “It’s not what we’ve traditionally set out to make for our troops… more work.”

Peter smiles, kind and polite and sweetness and light and ready to get drinks with Raxton’s wife on Wednesday as he quietly supports her continuing emotional journey towards charging her husband with domestic battery, one day. “Thanks, Mark. You’re so right. What this material does, that may not be obvious at first glance, is it puts your experienced and well-trained personnel back in the driver’s seat. Not to piggyback off your earlier objection, Major, but if you wanted a product that you can just step into and become a robot, have it fire for you and decide what to do, taking that decision out of the hands of highly-loyal and highly-intelligent individuals… well. You’d be up the road at SI, wouldn’t you?”

Peter takes a sip of his water, preparing himself for what he’s about to say even as the potential buyers in the room chuckle. Mark Raxton has his padfolio fully closed now. He’ll probably be fired by the end of the month, though Peter takes no joy in that.

He hates himself already. “I mean, what do those initials stand for again? Sokovia Initiative?”

The laughs get louder and Peter’s stomach turns.

“The thing to understand here is that Mark is right,” Peter adds, wondering if he can save the man’s job, if he has that power in this moment. Maybe he can spin it as part of the presentation, something they planned. “This isn’t traditional. But neither are M-16s, and I’m sure you’d rather have those than a wooden-stocked hunting rifle to give your soldiers. All we’re doing by reducing the over-the-top kinetic capabilities of these fibers is… streamlining the way we’re firing. Shortening the moment arm. Giving your troops a straight line to shoot… and they _still get to do the shooting._ You, and they, get to decide. The Iron Legion this is not.”

Norman Osborn raises a glass of mid-meeting amber alcohol and, for a wild moment, Peter wishes he could have a sip. “Hear, hear,” the older man adds. The team members from the army all clink their glasses of spring water with the CEO’s own tumbler.

“The only thing is,” the Major begins, and Peter resists the urge to throw his hands up. He wants to do science, not sales. “The thing is that I wish we didn’t have to do all these expensive tests to be sure it works as it’s supposed to.”

“So don’t,” Raxton puts in caustically. “It’s not like this is Parker’s midterm project for school. If you’re satisfied with his textile, take it off our hands. That’s all the level of scientific scrutiny we need to satisfy.”

“Now, now,” Peter cuts him off, trying to maintain a civil tone. “Everyone has a boss; I’m sure it would be different if you could sell this up the food chain, Major, with a superhero endorsement. But otherwise, you’ll need those tests to justify your purchase, I imagine. Do I have that right?”

“Got it in one, son,” he is told, and not without an unimpressed look at Raxton from most of the army team. Peter’s so tired that he’s starting to mix up all of their names. They all have the same haircut, obviously, and it’s… tough for him. He needs more sleep.

Peter manages a sympathetic nod. “I understand, sir. And, of course, you’d want someone with more time on the block than Night Monkey…” he trails off deliberately, turning away.

“I- Excuse me, son, what are you saying?”

Peter turns back around again, away from his presentation, and tries to look innocent. “Why, Night Monkey of course. This is what he uses. Didn’t I mention that?”

In the end, Peter gets a better parking space and Menken stops bugging him to pick a Friday when he’s available to have dinner with Harry (for now). It is a kind of lesser happiness, in the sense that he is slightly less unhappy than before.

Speaking of unhappiness, Tony doesn’t call, stops texting. He doesn’t visit Cambridge, not according to Peter’s friends. There aren’t any packages or couriers for him at the old apartment. Peter finally gets so lonely that he flips through all of their old pictures, stuff from the past five years of being mentored. There are pictures with the rest of the team, several where Tony flirts with May in the background, a few on outings with Ned after that one time Peter had come to the penthouse all broken up about a fight with his best friend about how much time Peter was spending in the lab and not with him. 

There are even a few images, probably taken by Natasha who would never be stopped by a stupid fingerprint reader, that capture the time Tony was trying to teach Steve and Barnes how to dance with each other to modern music without either of them looking like ‘the woman’. Tony had commandeered Peter to the dancefloor of his own fiftieth birthday party, held on the helipad. He’d looked at Peter and said, “Okay, you be Cap. I’ll be Murder-by-Manbun. Just do what I do, but backward.”

Peter exits the album on his phone and comes face to face with the snap he’d taken of the new spider-suit, last time he was in the lab. For the first time, Peter examines the right wrist of the suit, and sees the bright red bow wrapped there. There’s a little tag, and the red ribbon has Christmas trees and little gold menorahs, both, printed on it.

Peter throws his phone across the room, and the screen shatters. It is three days until Valentine’s Day.

***

For three days, Peter lives out of his old bedroom in Queens. There is no buzzing. Aunt May doesn't ask him any questions about the silver sedan with the Oscorp sticker parked next to her car. She makes her awful date loaf on the second night there and Peter just stares and stares and stares at it, forlorn and remembering, and she still doesn't make him talk about it. 

On the third day, Peter wakes up early and takes the hottest shower the crappy hot water heater can manage for him. Mark texts him passive-aggressively, asking if he'll be in today or if he even still works there. Peter calls him, wanting to get this over with. 

"If you stop hitting your wife and get some help, I will make sure you're credited as a co-patent holder and I won't bomb the kinetic textile deal. Cover for me for a few days, say HR never gave me my paid time off login—which is true by the way, get it together—and I had a family emergency."

Once upon a time, Peter would have been proud of himself for standing up for himself and creating a workaround like that. It sounds like something that Mr. Stark would write or say. Demand, incentive, instructions. All key elements. He's heard Tony use this technique a million times.

Valentine’s Day is a Friday this year, so Peter’s gotten paid. He sends everything to May’s account, cleaning out his own. He calls Columbia and gets it in writing (well… in email, at least) that his enrollment is in good standing and that his scholarship is not tied to Oscorp at all, despite their recommendation of his transfer. He double-checks his student information privacy releases; the only person who should get any of his school information is May.

Then, Peter sticks his phone in the little, mobile Faraday cage that he’s sewn together himself from frequency-blocking fleece, and heads over to Alba’s in Kew Gardens. It’s the convenience store that Ben was shot in. He’s known the family who owns it for almost his entire life.

“Can I speak to Julio, please?”

Peter watches the way the clerk’s eyes flick over to the left of the cash register, behind the counter. He’s sure there’s a picture of him taped there, or something. _This is the kid whose uncle died here. Just in case he comes in, be on the lookout,_ Peter imagines them telling this girl. He doesn’t want to scare her.

“It’s okay, nothing bad. I work for Oscorp now, and we have an extra shipment of security cameras. I’m going around to places in my old neighborhood and seeing if they need any. Deep discount, and free installation. I thought of you guys first…”

She scurries off, sleek black braid swinging over her shoulder with the movement. Peter waits, pulling out his old phone. The screen is a web of cracks, and little bits of the glass make micro-cuts on his thumbs as he looks up the recipe he needs on some chick’s cooking blog. It tickles, in a sandpapery kind of way. But, it could be worse. This was the whole reason Tony’d gifted him this phone. Stark ingenuity and Korean manufacturing mean that despite Peter’s best efforts to the contrary, it still works. Kind of.

The girl returns. ‘Yuyan’, he notices, is her name. He hadn’t seen the nametag before. “What’s the verdict, Yuyan?” Peter murmurs tiredly. It’s only noon, and he has plenty left to do.

She looks at him suspiciously, eyes going back to the side of the register once before returning to meet his gaze. “It’s _Yu-_ yan, not Yu- _yan,_ ” she corrects, seemingly unimpressed with him. That’s okay, Peter doesn’t feel impressive. “How _deep_ of a discount are we talking? Julio’s got a show at the comedy club tonight or he’d come out and talk about it. He told me to just give you whatever the down payment is, as long as it’s not too much, and you can come back and talk to him next week.”

Peter smiles his best, most charming, ‘can you smush it down for me, sir’ smile. He reserves it for the neighborhood, so it’s been months. Smile at anyone like this in Manhattan and you’ll get committed. “That’s fine. I’ll make it easy on you. The down payment is usually the cost of one camera, so about forty bucks. I need some groceries, though, so can we take it out in trade?”

Yuyan already looks bored. She’s on what looks to be WeChat on her phone, tap-tap-tapping away. “Sure. Julio owes ya one,” she tells him insensitively, tilting her head again at his picture. Peter gives in to the urge to lean across the counter and look at the damned thing. It’s exactly what he’d imagined; he’s about fourteen in that.

Peter sighs. He doesn’t begrudge her her tactlessness. She looks about sixteen; it’s her God-given right. “I can get you an updated one of those, if you want it,” he says with great resignation.

“I’ll decide if you’re still dangerous after I see what you ‘buy’, mister,” Yuyan informs him, doing the air-quotes around ‘buy’ like a little brat. She doesn’t even look up. Peter kinda likes her.

Peter manages to hunt down the baking chocolate and colored sugar that he needs, and he grabs some extra butter and eggs and milk just in case. He knows May has flour and all the rest of that stuff… he remembers to snag vanilla extract at the last second; Julio stocks the good stuff from Mexico. At the register, Peter also picks up a little heart-shaped box of chocolates for May.

“Don’t get those. They’re from last year. Get the other kind; the box is nicer cardboard and you could re-use it to wrap a gift or something,” she tells him, popping her gum, and Peter laughs.

“Thanks for the tip, kid. Does this mean you’ve decided I’m not dangerous?” Peter asks her. He feels like… Tony. He feels like an actual adult, charismatic and in control of his situation at last, and also a bit like someone who ought to tell this girl not to walk home alone, or make conversation with people whose picture her boss has taped next to the register.

Yuyan appears to glance over his items critically as she rings him up. Peter supposes she has to even if he’s not paying, for inventory purposes. “You baking cookies?” she inquires. “You got a Valentine?” she adds before he can respond, too-casually. _Oh god, she thinks I’m flirting with her._

Now he _really_ feels like Tony. Peter possibly owes his mentor a retroactive apology for anything he said to him between the ages of fifteen and eighteen, when things had sort of evened out between them. “Yup,” Peter answers, succinct. “His name’s Anthony,” he adds to discourage her. Bisexuality is a thing, but people tend to forget that.

“Awesome!” the girl exclaims, surprisingly. Her head snaps up and she actually _looks_ at him, and not the register or her phone. Yuyan pulls back her long, blunt-cut bangs that extend over the top of her ear, and shows him her little cartilage piercing. It’s a stud with pride-rainbow enamel.

Peter bumps fists with her even as he takes up his groceries with the other hand, put at ease. “Nice. Thanks, and see ya around,” he tells her, and makes to walk away. As he steps back from the counter he wonders, though, how many other people she’s come out to, if any. She doesn’t seem particularly practiced at it and that earring had been well-hidden.

“You too,” she murmurs mildly to his back.

“Hey, Yuyan,” he stops and calls to her, turning around. “You can keep a secret, right?”

She smiles a little self-deprecatingly. “Obviously.”

Peter returns the smile, sets the bag with his eggs on a stack of beer cases near the register, and then box-jumps straight up, allowing his fingers to stick to the ceiling for a beat before he swings his body weight over to another tile and then drops down right in front of the register. “I’m Spider-Man. And it gets better.”

The girl’s face shows shock, but also pride, and hope, and panic and excitement and joy in a dizzying display of human emotion. She composes herself a second later, and breathes, “Oh my god, we really _do_ need security cameras in here.”

Peter retrieves his eggs. “No shit.”

***

At home, Peter makes the separate batches of cookie dough, one chocolate and one vanilla, then does the complicated maneuver of rolling them together and slicing them to create perfect pinwheel cookies. He rolls the edges in red sugar to create the closest approximation possible, according to his research, to the now-discontinued signature cookies of the Maurice Lenell Cookie Company. After popping them in the oven, Peter texts Tony that he’s in town and on his way over.

“Ten minutes, May. Take them out and put them on the rack to cool. I set the kitchen timer. If you forget, I’m taking back the chocolates I got you,” Peter tells his aunt faux-threateningly.

“If my chocolates are in danger, I’ll just eat them all before you get home. Let’s be real here, kiddo,” she teases him back. “Also, you’re welcome to take Stark some leftover date loaf.”

Peter shudders at the thought. “Ten minutes!” he calls one last time, already half out the door in his suit.

Night Monkey makes quick work across Queens, using the kinetic grip and kinetic boost functions to, well… swing from building to building. It’s kind of Peter’s thing, whether primate or arachnid.

He clears his way into Manhattan and then disappears into his own apartment. Being at May’s for a little while has given him time to think.

Peter waves at every hidden camera he can hear inside the walls of his apartment, and spends time covering all their sensors with the little round, fluorescent stickers May had in her desk drawer from that time she wanted to sell some of their furniture. Then he spends twenty minutes carefully unwiring one, learning how it works, making sure it’s intact so they can use it as a sample to scan. Tony needs to see this. Also, probably Natasha.

As soon as Peter gets the first camera detached, the humming stops. It figures Oscorp would go in for shitty workmanship and wire them all in a chain. Pfft.

By the time Peter gets back across the city, his cookies are more than cooled and May’s chocolates are long gone. Peter takes the box from her gently, kisses her on the cheek, and tells her, “Happy Valentine’s Day, May.” She pulls her hands from behind her back and offers him his favorite, a coconut-filled dark chocolate confection.

“Saved you one. Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetie. Throw the box away for me?”

“I’ll do you one better,” Peter replies, taking the box from her and tossing the plastic inner tray that had held the candy. Yuyan was right, the box is quite nice, though it does still have the nutrition facts for the candy printed on the back. He grabs some wax paper from the kitchen and wraps up his imitation-Maurice Lenells before placing them in the heart-shaped box.

What Peter likes best about this is that it looks like something he would have given Tony anyway, even if Oscorp had never happened. He didn’t want to use their wealth for this, no matter how far it had had to trickle down to get to him. 

(This is something he needs to be… untouched.)

He changes back into normal clothes, though he makes sure he looks nice. But not too nice. Peter knows there is a very real possibility that Tony won’t want to speak to him after Peter tells him what he knows he needs to tell him. He doesn’t want to look… expectant. Assuming.

After he gathers up his things, including the surveillance camera and the cookies, May gives him one last hug.

“Go get your man, baby,” she tells him after pulling back.

“He’s not mine,” Peter says honestly. It hurts to say, but it’s true. “And he never will be unless I undo all this.”

“Just tell the truth,” May counsels him. She looks worried but also hopeful, which is about how Peter feels, himself. “I get the sense that not many people have been one-hundred-percent honest with Tony Stark in his life.”

Peter squeezes May’s hand on his shoulder with one of his own, even as the other hitches his bag up against his side. “You’ll be here when I get back, no matter what happens?” His voice is small and he hates it. Peter is twenty years old for Christ’s sake.

“I’ll always be here, Peter,” she says sincerely, tenderly. “But also, you don’t know. Maybe your Mr. Stark will have you stay the night,” she puts in, eyes mischievous behind her oversized glasses. She’s fully smirking and Peter is forced to move her hands off his shoulders and step back, affronted.

He groans. “C’mon, May!”

Her laughter follows him out the door and keeps him strong until he can go downstairs and lock himself in the back of a cab, his company car sitting idle, engine cold, ten feet away.

“Stark Tower, please.”

***

Tony’s leaning against the hood of a candy apple red Bugatti when Peter gets to the private level of the parking garage. He can see him through the gate.

Jerome opens it up for him automatically which makes Tony frown. Peter’s senses tingle, and he suspects Tony’s about to say something about protocol and letting Happy know that Peter’s visiting. Before he can, Peter pushes into his powers to bound over to Tony and hug him, hoping to cut him off.

“Hey! Oh,” Tony exhales. “Hi, kid. Missed you. S’been a while. I’d ask if I can touch, but it’s kinda too late.”

“Hi,” Peter breathes anxiously into Tony’s shoulder. He gives the man an extra squeeze then backs off guiltily; he forgot about their rule. Tony’s hand comes away from his hair, messing it up inadvertently as Peter steps away. “I didn’t think Jerome was working today. It’s usually Lauren on Fridays, or am I dumb?”

“You’re not dumb, Pete. I think they just switched shifts… Lauren’s due date is this week. I can ask, though. I should tell him to check you in anyway, just for Happy’s blood pressure.”

Peter regrets his curiosity. He grabs Tony’s hand. “Wait, Mr. Stark. I, uh. I really need to talk to you,” he says breathlessly. He’s aware of Jerome watching, and he knows what this must look like. _Fucking A. It’s_ my _blood pressure I’m worried about,_ Peter thinks to himself. “We can talk to Happy, um. After.”

“Alright,” Tony relents, looking down briefly at their hands before unlinking them. “Whatever you want. To the elevator it is,” he decides. Over his shoulder, he calls, “Thanks, Jerry!”

And then it’s just them as the doors close and all the way up. “Hey, Fri,” Peter says quietly, watching Mr. Stark watch him. “How’s my best girl?” he asks her because, otherwise, he’s going to dive headlong into an extended waking fantasy about pushing Mr. Stark up against the reflective wall of the elevator and watching himself press their mouths, and potentially other parts, together for as long as Tony might want him to.

“I’m not-a-girl, Peter, as you know. But I’m happy today because it’s Valentine’s Day, and that means many people are busy at the movies, going out to restaurants, and having intercourse. The holiday keeps them off their phones and computers. The proverbial airwaves aren’t as clogged and my latency is super low! How are you?”

“Can’t argue with that logic. Though remind me to program in some kind of anti-overshare protocol,” Tony tells him. “Top floor, please, sweetness,” he adds with a wink towards Friday’s camera.

Peter fights down a blush. “M’fine, Fri,” he informs her. “I just need to talk to Mr. Stark about some personal stuff, so if it’s okay with him and you, could you step out as soon as we get to the top?”

“Fine by me,” Tony puts in, voice easy, but Peter can tell he’s on edge. They both are. _God, this is going to suck._

“Will do, Peter,” the AI chirps, and a few tense moments later, the doors open. Peter makes his way to the kitchen, setting his bag down on the bar. He’s done his homework here for years. It’s kind of their spot when they’re not in the lab.

“You gonna tell me what this is all about or do I need to make you a stiff drink first?” There’s a beat. “Also, can I, uh…?”

Peter looks up as Tony settles in the seat next to him and hovers a hand over his shoulder. “Yeah, I. Yeah?”

Permitted, Tony claps the hand to Peter’s shoulder. “Even Rhodey thinks you ought to be able to drink by now, didn’t you get my texts? I rely on him to tell me what I can and can’t do. Well, what I should and shouldn’t do. I _can_ do anything,” Tony rambles, and Peter hides his smile, looking down at the bar top instead.

“M’good. I don’t want a drink,” Peter says to the wood and marble and glass and the man beside him. Tony's hand slides from Peter’s shoulder to the other one further away from him. It puts them in a sort of sideways hug.

Tony hums. “Okay, then. Well, in case my first try was too subtle, let me put this out there again. Have you been getting my texts? Is whatever’s going on with you why you haven’t been answering, because I gotta say, kid, not cool-”

“It’s about what we talked about last time.”

“I mean, my time is very valuable and there are people who would kill to have my personal- oh.”

Yeah. _Oh._ “Yep,” Peter sighs.

“About,” Tony says shortly, stopping. In the corner of his eye, he sees Tony draw back, his hand retracing its steps across the top of Peter’s spine, tilt his head and look at Peter with a squinting curiosity, as if something about him is beyond comprehension. Finally, Tony starts again. “Huh. It’s about the, uh. Older gentleman?” He drops his hand from Peter’s person entirely.

Peter winces. “Yeah, that. And it’s about why I’m in the city on a Friday when I’m supposed to be at MIT,” he adds, going for his bag. “And why I did all this in the first place. You deserve to know.”

“Well,” Mr. Stark puts in, not unkindly, “I sort of figured you were just having a mid-semester breakdown. It happens, nothing to be ashamed of. You can relax here.”

Peter laughs, though it isn’t funny. He draws out the heart-shaped box and slides it across the bar to Tony so that he doesn’t have to take it from him. He generally does fine with being handed things by Peter, but Peter doesn’t want to chance it. He wants to close his eyes but he doesn’t… he turns slightly and watches Tony’s face, instead. “I really, really can’t. God, you’re. Anyway, Happy Valentine’s Day, Tony.”

“Oooh, candy- and,” Tony slides the box to his left, barely looking at it, “you called me ‘Tony’. I love that, kid, I really prefer it. Best gift ever.”

Peter looks between the shoved-aside box and Tony’s face. He smiles weakly. “Great. I think I should try to call you that more, given my age. I’m not a kid anymore,” he tells him, as a last-ditch effort.

“Yeah,” Tony mutters. “I guess not, with everything you’re telling me.” He gets up and snags the box containing Peter’s home-made offerings—Peter’s heart almost literally wrapped and delivered—and then Tony also grabs the strap of Peter’s bag, pulling it across the bar in front of him. He starts for the other room. “Come on, kid. We can talk in the lab.”

“Not-a-kid,” Peter murmurs after him, but he also follows. _How could he not?_

“Since you brought me something and you really didn’t have to, I feel completely justified in giving you this now,” Tony informs him. He’s got something in his hand and is gesturing at the new spider-suit. He does a little come-hither movement at it, and it _steps out of the display._ Peter is floored. “It was supposed to be for Christmas-slash-Hanukkah, but. I mean, you were busy, so that’s fine-”

“I’m sorry,” he ghosts out. He can’t imagine how much work it was to program independent motion into the damn thing. Peter hadn’t even been able to get his voice changer right, for Night Monkey.

Tony tosses him a little bracelet, presumably the uplink to communicate with the suit.

Fuck. Peter’s eyes are burning. He closes them. From just in front of him, there’s a gentle question. “Kid?”

“I’m not a _kid._ ” Fuck fuck fuck. He can’t deal with this right now. Tony’s never gonna let this go.

Tony's strong hands smooth up and down Peter’s arms, between his shoulder and his elbow. He’s holding Peter steady. “Okay. Tell me about it. Tell me what happened.”

“I smashed my phone. I was upset,” Peter manages. It’s the truth.

“Okay,” Tony all but hums out, his voice at its most soothing. He squeezes Peter’s shoulders once, like a reward for being honest, then takes his hands away. Peter opens his eyes. “Sorry I didn’t ask first, you looked upset.”

“S’okay,” Peter exhales. “I’m sorry I didn’t come for Christmas.”

Tony echoes him. “S’okay, sweetheart. I shouldn’t have tried to give you those sunglasses. And… I understand. Sometimes you wanna hide your mistakes, no matter how small or unintended. I don’t know when you smashed your phone, but. You could have told me-”

 _Jesus, you have no idea what I’ve hidden from you._ “It wasn’t that-”

“…Instead of invading my privacy and coming in here trying to fix it yourself.” Tony eyes him.

Peter freezes. “What?” The new spider-suit, which has been waiting patiently all this time, whips its head around to look at Tony, clearly reacting to the spike in Peter’s anxiety. _That’s incredible,_ Peter marvels briefly. _I haven’t even worn it yet._

Tony is smirking now, and Peter can’t tell if it’s because of catching Peter out or because of what he’s sure is naked admiration for Tony’s abilities written all over his face. “Are you on _Game of Thrones?_ Because you left your coffee cup right on the table,” he explains.

Peter reaches back mentally, trying to recall. He remembers the two coffee cups he’d had for props, and passing the plain one off to Jerome in thanks. He remembers bringing his own cup up to the penthouse and… that’s about it. _Shit._ “Shit,” he says succinctly.

“Mmhmm. And I understand why you had Friday delete her logs, if you were so embarrassed. But if you’re setting boundaries, I get to as well. I’d prefer to be able to keep track of what happens in the lab. For anti-supervillain heel-turn purposes, to steal your phrase,” Tony tells him. “That’s one thing drug addiction taught me, Peter. You gotta keep a spotlight on your mistakes or else they’ll just sneak up on you over and over again.”

Every sentence that Tony says, Peter thinks this is the worst he could ever feel. Then there’s another one, and Peter finds he’s wrong. _I’m such a piece of shit. I gotta tell him._

“Can I have another hug?” he asks. _This might be the last one._

“Oh, kid. ‘Course.” Peter’s wrapped up and this time he really does let Tony hold him up. He lets his muscles relax, not so limp that he’ll drag Tony to the floor with his bodyweight, but near enough to a slump. Peter puts his face in Tony’s neck even though he knows it might be crossing a line to do so. Tony isn’t wearing any fragrance today. He frequently takes Fridays off, Peter knows, and he’s always been careful about Peter’s senses. All Peter is able to take in is a slight bit of aftershave; Tony must have neatened his facial hair. But Peter’s musings are interrupted as Tony squeezes him tighter, then steps back to hold Peter by the shoulders, at arm’s length. “I don’t want you to worry about this so much. I, uh. I have my own confession.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. He’s pretty sure he knows where this is going.

“The reason I know so much about trying to erase your embarrassing missteps is because I do it too. Well, _did_ it,” Tony continues, making a face at himself. “When you… when we were texting more, I may have. Well. I may have used Edith to get at a few of your text messages from me. Like the ‘Undo’ button after you hit ‘Send’ on Gmail,” Tony explains charmingly. He drops his hands from Peter’s shoulders. “Except, you know… illegal.”

Peter can’t help it; he snorts. “Ya think?”

Tony gestures for him to sit. They can hardly stand about all afternoon. Peter sits in his favorite rolling chair, but Tony remains standing. He starts to pace around the silent spider-suit. “I’m sorry, for the record,” Tony tells him softly. He brushes a bit of invisible dust off of the suit’s shoulder. Peter feels the touch on his own body.

“It’s really okay. You don’t know the half of-”

“No, no it’s not. You told me what your boundary was. I fucked it up, Peter. All because I didn’t want to tell you how much I wanted you home for the holiday. That’s messed up. I can give every excuse in the book: my dad and his ways, mass-acculturation away from men expressing their feelings, especially with other men… you name it. Failed relationships, daddy issues, addiction-”

Peter cuts him off. “Sir, I forgive you. I do, I always would- because. Well, because, but not just that. But I definitely do forgive you, if you’ll tell me when you did it before?”

Tony steps to the side, no longer hiding behind the sleek, metallic machine between them. “You knew?”

“Not everything,” Peter admits. “It was the day of your talk, right? I remember getting the notification.”

Tony comes around from next to the suit, his hand winding around its hip. Peter shivers. “I just sounded… like a stupid old man. It was something about wanting to see your face to know you were okay. Needing to. You booked it out of the hall so fast, you know,” Tony tells him.

“I know,” Peter exhales.

Tony finally sits, though he does so against the edge of the lab table opposite Peter’s station. “I thought-”

“I _know_ what you thought. It’s okay,” Peter promises. He takes a deep breath. “I stole from you.”

Tony’s sneakers squeak as he almost stands up again. “I’m _sorry_ , you-”

“Stole from you. Yeah,” confirms Peter. “I didn’t come here about my phone; that hadn’t happened yet. I wanted Karen’s chipset out of the Iron Spider so I could talk to her.”

Tony’s looking at him like he doesn’t believe him. “You. You could have just asked. I would have made you a… an earbud or something. Christ, Peter. To come all the way here from Cambridge for that-”

Peter flinches, and Tony looks even more confused. He soldiers on, though, and it hurts Peter to watch.

"You know I could have had somebody bring you the suit, if you wanted the whole thing, too. You didn't have to come all the way back and break-in; I'd have sent it."

"It, er- it wasn't that far, sir."

“If you missed it that much I hear they commercialized pajamas out of it,” Tony continues. “I mean, I’m surprised, but it’s not really stealing from _me._ The suits are yours, really, so if you _wanted_ to compromise your identity, potentially, by bringing Spider-Man to Cambridge, then I wouldn’t be the one to stop-”

“I wasn’t _in_ Cambridge.”

Silence.

Peter can’t abide silence. He never has been able to. “I transferred to Columbia. I’ve been here for a few months. I was mad at you for… for like, parenting me. I didn’t want your grant money, and you checking on my transcripts, what? Because you and Rhodey hacked MIT’s registrar a million times? You’re not my dad, I don’t _want_ that from you. I want… other things-”

Tony seems to be stunned. He’s got a hand on the lab table now, like he doesn’t trust his legs. “What other things?”

“You- and you, you just wouldn’t listen? I’m so sorry. This is my fault, not yours. I’m the one who let Oscorp talk me into shit, but I just want you to _understand_ why-”

_“Oscorp?”_

“I just wanted. I wanted to be successful. On my own. I just wanted to _be like you-”_

Tony’s hand, as he stands, slams down onto the surface of the lab table so hard that Peter feels it in his jaw. “Yes. I know,” he bites out. “You said that once. _Five years ago._ I thought you were _over that-_ I. Fucking _Oscorp_. I can’t- _”_

Peter breaks. “I’m never gonna be over it,” he brings up from his gut. He stomps up to a standing position, the desk chair rolling away behind him with the recoil of it, and it brings him to a height with Tony, their chests almost touching. “I’m never not gonna want to be your equal, Tony. I’m never not gonna want to be good, to be good enough for you. I’m never not gonna want to impress you. Period,” Peter tells him. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re a fucking lunatic,” Tony informs him, though his voice is excruciatingly gentle. He prods Peter back with a finger in the chest. “You don’t say ‘period’ and then add an apology, Christ. Also, I’m gonna need a sidebar, Spiderling. Because I _have no idea what you’re talking about._ ”

“Yes, you do- surely you have to, by now. You _must_ know-”

“I don’t,” Tony argues back simply. He’s smiling sort of crooked and wrong, but smiling, and it seems genuine. “You _are_ my equal, and you’re good, and you’re _good enough._ I’m suitably impressed, okay? I know the hero-worship runs deep with you, but you can’t let it cause you this much angst, kid.”

 _Kid,_ Peter repeats mentally. _Jesus fuck._ “Okay,” he manages to get out. _Mr. Stark has got to be the second-stupidest genius I know. Right after me._

Tony appears to be looking him over. Peter wonders if he has doubts about him. Peter wonders if he has lost Tony's trust, and for what? It hadn't worked anyway. Tony is still calling him 'kid'. "May I touch, Pete?" he finally asks. 

_Always. Please,_ Peter thinks. "Sure, yeah. Go for it."

Tony smooths a thumb over the outside edge of Peter's cheek, his other fingers curling around Peter's jaw. He presses up, lifting Peter's chin minutely, presumably to get a better look at him. "I'm not gonna just drop you. Read my lips. Believe. You're not being abandoned, honey."

(Maybe it was actually so Peter could see _him_ better.)

Peter can feel the smooth burn on Tony's palm where it presses into his skin, and he knows—deep in his bones—that Tony's words are words that the other man must have wished for, when he was Peter's age or younger. He sits down, ready to listen, and Tony’s hand slips off his chin and back to its owner.

Peter watches as Tony turns away, back to the suits. He tries to inhale deep and slow, and then let the breath out equally as slowly. Tony’s not leaving, and he’s not kicking Peter out. It’s going to be _fine._

“Let’s just get back to our roots, yeah?” Tony asks him. “Tell the Four-Six to stand down, and we’ll take a look at the Iron Spider together. I wanna see what you did to poor Karen.”

“The… Four-Six?”

“Working title. You can name it whatever, I just. It’s based off my Mark Forty-Seven, you remember that one? Unmanned, if necessary, when you can’t be there. Capable of working off your remote commands or linking up and mirroring your movement, if you’re in a position to just let your instincts take over. I figured that might be important for your Peter tingle and all that. So, yeah. Mark Forty-Seven, but new and improved for Spider-Man’s use. And I can’t let you one-up me, so. The Four-Six,” Tony explains. “I call it the Big Four-Six, sometimes, too. When it’s being bratty and needs to be taken down a peg.”

Peter’s still holding the sensor bracelet that, if he had to guess, picks up his chemosignals to tap into those spidey-instincts, so. He’s not really surprised when the suit does a facepalm. “Oh,” he says unnecessarily. “Well, I’ll probably rename it,” he tells Tony. He makes a shooing motion and the suit darts back into its display case, seemingly grateful to be excluded from this narrative.

“Be my guest. It was sentimental of me anyway,” Tony mutters as Peter gets up to come look at the Iron Spider.

“In what way?”

Tony clams up as Peter comes closer. “Well, it was originally supposed to be your Christmas present…”

“I gathered that.”

“I had a speech and everything. You really missed out,” Tony informs him.

Peter steps a little closer, helping Tony with the weight of the other suit. Suit-nanites are fucking heavy as fuck due to the law of conservation of mass; if it weren’t for the electromagnet and other next-level shit Tony has fixed under his shirt, he probably wouldn’t be able to so much as budge the armor. “Yeah?” Peter grunts.

“It was about how I was forty-six when you met me,” Tony finally manages as they get the suit laid out on the table with a heavy _clang._ Peter barely remembers when he did this himself, it was so easy. He forgets his own strength. “Or, more accurately, when _I_ met _you._ You changed my life, and that’s saying something. I thought after getting clean and Iron Man and the Chitauri… well, anyone would think that they’d used up their ‘life-changing events’ quota, you know? But never before have I-”

“Oh God, don’t. You sound like Bruce Willis or like, I dunno, Sean Bean in the scene before he dies.”

“…I have never before been so happy to be wrong about something,” Tony finishes, turning to him. “So that’s the other reason for the dorky name.”

Peter feels… soft. “You’re sure it’s not just because you’re a giant dork in general, sir?”

“I made no such claim, Mr. Parker.”

That gets a smile out of Peter. “Hey, you didn’t call me ‘kid’. I love that; I really prefer it. Best gift ever,” he tells Tony softly, repeating his earlier words back to him. “I’m sorry I missed that speech the first time around. I should have at least shown up for Christmas, instead of telling myself unpacking was more important. I’m a fucking idiot, okay?”

“Language,” Tony says mildly, probably joking, but Peter gives him a half-baleful look anyway. “And you’re not a fucking idiot. They already had you here, then? Hook, line, and sinker. Employee housing I’m guessing?”

“Yep.”

“Nicer than Stark Industries’ housing?” Tony inquires casually, seeming to make himself look busy by getting out his precision tools. “How far away did they put you?”

“The Echelon on the edge of Chelsea, it’s maybe a mile and a half,” Peter informs him. “Less, I guess, for Spider-Man.”

Tony makes a face. _“I’d_ have put you in the Caroline. It’s next door but it has some style to it.”

He can’t help but snort. Of course Tony knows about real-estate in Chelsea. “But I thought you _liked_ all this Howard Hughes, modern lines and metal bullshit,” Peter says pointedly, looking around.

“But you’re not me. Besides, I’ve been thinking of getting into something warmer. Dark wood, bookcases, fireplaces, Van Gogh granite. It can’t be mod white and steel grey all the time. It’s too cold,” Tony opines. He looks at Peter again, shaking his head. “It doesn’t suit you.”

Peter takes that in as Tony goes over to a little cabinet on the side. Tony pulls out a phone and tosses it to him. “What’s this?”

“A cell phone. Are you Cap?”

“Shuddup.”

Tony straight up laughs at him, and Peter finds he can laugh at himself, too. “You think I don’t know what you need by now?” Tony puts in, and Peter holds back what he’s thinking. _Not as well as you think._

“Thanks,” Peter says anyway. “What _else_ is in that drawer?”

“Extra backpacks,” Tony tells him solemnly. Then he cracks a smile. “Friday, you can come back in, babygirl. Mummy and Daddy are done fighting. Talk to Edith and clone her last image of Peter’s phone to the new one. Should be slot A8, if I pulled the right one. Samsung collab version 2. Stat, please.”

“What’s the rush? Are we going out?” _On Valentine’s Day? Almost like a date?_

But Tony shakes his head. “If they’ve got you in the Echelon, then I guarantee you you’re being watched. I want you to head over and grab as many cameras as you can sense while I patch up the Iron Spider. We can make a weekend of that and the cameras if you want. Stay over, I’ll make dinner. Movies, popcorn, the whole nine. Nat, Barnes, Rogers, and Sam are pulling some shit in Jersey this weekend, maybe if they get done playing Barbershop Quartet they can swing by Sunday for a kind of family dinner? We need to talk about this Night Monkey development.”

Peter hums, widening his eyes significantly. “Do we, though?”

Tony kicks the ‘Peter’ drawer closed with his foot, then sits heavily on top of the cabinet. “You’re kidding.”

He twists his hands together as Tony watches. “Am I?”

“They’re going to think we’re starting a cult, you realize that? If Ross finds out? The Order of the Spider-Monkey.”

Peter considers that, feeling lighter than ever with one more secret let go. “Surely it would be _your_ cult, sir. A pyramid scheme of supers and mutants. I always imagined you… on top…”

Fuck, he did _not_ mean it to sound like that.

Tony appears to let that one go by, mercifully. All Peter gets is an eyebrow raise. “So, the cameras? Be careful unwiring them; they’re probably fucking daisy-chained.”

“Language. Also, yeah, they are. I’m way ahead of you,” Peter rushes out, eager to move on. “I brought a sample with me. I promised Alba’s I’d rewire them and set them up for CCTV. Their cameras right now are fake. Can you help?”

Tony comes back over to the table, and stops with his hand hovering just over Peter’s chest, not touching. “You went _in_ Alba’s?”

It’s not a big deal. Peter’s not going to _make_ it a big deal. “I needed to get stuff for Valentine’s.”

He covers the moment by snagging his bag and pulling out the camera to show to Tony. Tony lets him go. “Hmm, okay. Yeah, we can probably do that, if you’re fine stealing from Oscorp. I’ll need the rest of them, though, to see how they fit together.”

Sounds good to Peter. “What are they gonna do? Cry to the police that I absconded with their illegal monitoring devices? There were, like, _twenty_ of them between the living room, dining nook, and kitchen. I swear to God.”

“Yikes. Anywhere else?”

Peter meets his gaze. “Not that I found. And for the record, when I said I whored myself out, this is what I meant. I did _not_ screw Mr. Osborn or Harry. I’m pretty sure they don’t know I’m Spider-Man. The Night Monkey stuff… I have a plan.”

The shrug Tony gives him comes off like he doesn’t care, but Peter knows he does. “Go get the cameras; you can tell me all about it while we’re working. I’ll order pizza for now and then cook later when you’re weirdly hungry again, my little radioactive freakazoid. Sound good?”

“Copy. Be right back,” Peter sighs, and he puts the rest of it out of his mind as he heads for the elevator. It feels good to have his mentor back, his friend. Nevermind the rest of it. “No mushrooms!”

“Extra mushrooms, got it!” Tony calls back.

Yeah, it feels good.

***

It feels good, but he’s still Peter Parker. That means it doesn’t get to last. On the way back, his new camera collection packed carefully in his bag, Peter’s pocket buzzes.

**Peter. I need a rain check.**

He reads the message from Tony and he just. Knows. His whole body feels shaken and faint, like his bones are rotting, marrow-out.

The next text is a novel, but Peter reads it all. Reads it again. And again.

 **I went down to talk to Jerry, to have  
** **him keep an eye out for the pizza.  
** **He told me what you told him, and  
** **I have to say I’m VERY angry, Peter.  
** **You can come up to drop off the cams,  
** **but I’ll be in the shower, and Friday will  
** **herd you right back out again with her  
** **electro-locks. By the time you get back,  
** **there should be pizza on the bar. Eat. Leave.  
** **Give me some time, and we’ll speak again  
** **soon, after I’ve calmed down. And not  
** **before then, preferably. Okay? Try to**  
**respect my boundaries, such as they are.**

And then, miserably, after moments have passed and Peter nearly misses the stop for Stark Tower:

**Please. Show me you give a fuck, Peter.**

Peter gets off the bus mechanically. He crosses the street and leaves his bag with Jerome, who looks confused and vaguely horrified. They don’t say anything to each other, and Peter doesn’t worry about it. There’s nothing in that bag that he really needs.

He goes home and May meets him at the door. Peter’s keys were in the bag.

He stares at his shiny, new phone until Monday comes.

Peter never _has_ been able to abide silence. 

(But now he has no choice.)


	5. Tourné vers toi

Peter goes to work. 

Peter goes to work every day for a month. He's perfectly on time, perfectly prepared, perfectly polite nearly all the way through mid-March. He wears a green silk shirt on St. Patrick's Day and lets Mark Raxton's wife, Cheryl, buy him a green beer as she tells him warmly that they're in couples counseling and that Mark asks her permission first every single time he touches her, even if it's just to pass the TV remote. They finish their drinks and meet Peter's aforementioned supervisor for a silly movie about some woman going to Ireland after her divorce and falling in love with a leprechaun in disguise. Peter hopes it lasts, both in the movie and in Raxton's marriage. 

(He feels stupid for hoping, but a little less stupid the more he drinks.)

The theatre, incidentally, is serving green beer tonight too, and Peter makes enough money now that he pays the highway robbery they're asking for it. 

(His ID is fake. Peter made it himself, even though Tony could have done better.)

Peter sits next to Mark and thinks how insane it is to be here, watching a rom-com, with a man who hurt the person that he was supposed to love and cherish. Night Monkey has broken wrists for less; just last week Peter put a little bit of a vigilante beatdown on a guy for catcalling some young woman and then laughing at her for not understanding… She was hard-of-hearing. She'd told the guy, loudly and with a slight speech impediment, to 'respect her boundaries' and Peter had just… overdone it.

Then again, maybe Peter is just through the looking-glass at last. After all, maybe Mark Raxton never expected to be sitting next to _Peter,_ next to someone who stole from his own beloved friend and mentor, who talked about the man he supposedly loved behind his back, who lied and lied and _lied_ to get what he wanted just like a thousand other snakes curling around the branches of Tony Stark's tree every time the genius dared to try and bear some goddamn emotional fruit.

Maybe neither he nor Mark deserve to share popcorn with the other; Cheryl should flee from them both. 

In the middle of the movie, Peter leaves. He can't think about love anymore. Fuck the fucking leprechaun, or don't, lady. _Shit or get off the pot. The pot of gold,_ Peter thinks hysterically, and he vomits green popcorn into the toilet at the movie theater. The color reminds him of Billie Eilish's hair. 

"I'm the bad guy," Peter says, over and over, crying in the bathroom stall. He's white-girl wasted.

He gets home, somehow.

***

Ned stages an intervention on the spring equinox. Apparently, MJ told him it would be the opportune day to harness natural, seasonal change-encouraging energies, or at least that’s what Ned tells Peter. Neither of them ever know when MJ is serious versus when she’s messing with them and making shit up, but that keeps the mystery alive in their friendship. It’s fine.

(Peter misses her.)

“I don’t wanna say you’re freaking me out, Peter, but… you’re freaking me out,” Ned starts. He’s shown up with a backpack and a huge burlap sack—what the fuck—full of groceries while May is conveniently out of the apartment. It reminds Peter of nothing so much as the time Tony visited him at MIT. Everything reminds him of Tony; that’s sort of the whole problem.

“Sorry,” Peter says lamely.

Ned just looks at him, the weird part of May’s kitchen between them where it’s kind of an island but there’s also a whole wall in the way with a little cutout. Peter notices for the first time that Ned’s gotten a little taller. “No, it’s… it’s alright,” he tells Peter. “I don’t want you to stop what you’re doing for my sake. And certainly don’t do it for Tony Stark’s sake, either, because honestly, he might not take you back, Peter.”

“Thanks, man.”

“No, I mean it. You fucked up, dude. But it doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that May says you’re drinking a lot and coming home sad and crying in the shower.”

 _Shit._ Peter had thought he’d been hiding it better than that.

“And Oscorp, Peter? Really? I tried to withhold judgment, and I even kept MJ at bay for you, but both Betty and Gwen are ready to rip your throat out. Not cool,” Ned opines.

Peter puts his hand flat on the white wall. May never bothered painting in here, not after they moved four times in as many years since Peter became Spider-Man. He looks at his five fingers there, feels the coolness of the wall that never gets any natural light. He wants to draw strength from it, let it chill him the fuck out.

But he’s not strong. “A man’s gotta eat, Ned. I did what I had to do.”

“No, you _didn’t_ ,” he hears and suddenly Ned’s come around the weird archway to be right beside him. It’s been years since anyone has been able to approach Peter with anything approaching stealth. “Listen. I’m pulling the best friend card here,” Ned informs him. He puts his hand right next to Peter’s. It’s nice because it means they’re both facing the wall and don’t have to look at each other. They could be at a urinal, it’s so casual.

Peter takes a deep breath. “Okay. Go.”

“I think,” Ned says carefully, “that you’re _used to_ having to do a lot of messed up stuff to survive. I think it’s been, what, six plus years since Spider-Man? It’s comfortable.”

Try as he might, Peter can’t keep his hand on the wall. He takes it away. “So?”

“It’s a lot more comfortable, maybe, than letting Mr. Stark help you, right?” Ned ventures, turning and poking at Peter’s shoulder in a weird little microcosm of a hug. It’s how it feels to Peter, at least. A hug and a well-deserved kick in the ass, all in one finger. “But he helps you all the time, so clearly he likes helping. Maybe you should let him do what he likes to do.”

Ned crosses his arms and Peter notices there’s a little more muscle there, a little less flab. His whole host of Important People has moved on without him, while he’s been busy being the world’s biggest little bitch. “But what about what _I_ like to do? Or I guess… have done to me?” Peter self-corrects awkwardly. He doesn’t mean it like that, but he doesn’t know how else to put it.

It gets a little quiet, but not for too long. “You’re a dork, Peter,” Ned pronounces. “Let me put it like this: you wouldn’t have come back to the city if you didn’t want him to catch you. If MJ were here, she’d say ‘lesbihonest’, but I’m gonna let that go unsaid. For personal reasons.”

Peter snorts and circles around Ned to get back to the kitchen. There’s a ton of weird vegetables and a twenty-pound bag of rice, and a pineapple. “Where did you get this stuff?”

Ned comes back around the corner after him. “I read a book on interpersonal relationships between men and also that one about love languages- oh. Asian market, dude. Why, where do _you_ shop?”

Peter starts putting away the big stuff first; the rice and the potatoes and the onions all go under the counter in a cabinet. He ducks down just long enough to get the stuff in there and also to peep the glint of bottles and bottles of alcohol. His own. Peter pops back up and leans on the counter, suddenly cold. He squints at Ned who is still taking stuff out of his bag. “Alba’s, a few weeks ago,” he finally answers.

Ned’s eyes go wide before he ducks his head and looks back down into his bag, presumably trying not to make it a big deal. He hands Peter a bunch of bananas without looking up. “Oh? Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Peter thinks about that for a long time after Ned leaves. He doesn’t drink, so that he can think about it really, really hard.

***

Peter barely finishes answering his emails before the big meeting is set to start. He’s already running late, but this was more important. It’s quite a thing to pull off, but if he does it then it’ll all be worth it. Hopefully.

He manages to get his tie properly on, and his hair smoothed down, and then he steps into the main conference room silently, apologies already on his lips. Peter is behind by ten whole minutes, which is practically a whole lifetime in business time.

At least he’s sober. _Heyyyy, woo-hoo for me,_ Peter tells himself mentally. _Snaps for Peter._

“Mr. Parker, it’s a pleasure to have you join us,” Mr. Osborn greets him. It doesn’t _sound_ like it’s a pleasure, but Peter is prepared to take that on the chin.

“Oh, come on, Norm. You know how the traffic is into Manhattan,” someone advocates for him. “You really ought to look into providing _proper_ employee housing. Let me know if you need any recommendations. SI looked at several properties, way back when.”

Record scratch. _Fuck._ What the hell is Tony Stark doing at Oscorp?

“Thank you,” Peter says quietly to the room at large. He can’t make any other words come out, even as he takes his seat. He’s trying not to stare at Tony, which is easier than he would have thought it would be, if someone had asked him. Instead, Peter looks down at his padfolio, open now to the page that clearly says—in damning black and white—that today he’s meant to be presenting the kinetic textile for intra-industry investment. Oscorp’s considering a joint venture.

The guys from Ryan Chemical are there too. Peter dismisses them in his mind. They’re probably interested in taking the formula that creates the fabric and making… he doesn’t know… a new kind of coating for cookware or something that’ll give them all cancer in twenty years.

“You were saying?” Tony prompts Peter’s boss, and Mark jumps right back in, seemingly content to see Peter contrite and with his tail between his legs.

“Well, I _was_ saying that we ought to move forward with the recording of Parker’s presentation to the buying arm of the military-”

“I’m sure Peter can speak for himself,” Tony puts in, voice interminably pleasant.

Peter looks up, steeling himself. He wonders if Osborn—or Menken, more accurately, since it seems to be him who really pulls the strings—left the information about the meeting so vague for precisely this purpose. He’s off-kilter.

 _Late and underprepared, that’s more than enough reason to fire me,_ Peter knows.

“I’ll be perfectly happy to answer any questions you might have after the presentation,” Peter hedges. “I want you to have the same experience as any valued client, Mr. Stark. And I’m sure the Ryan team will appreciate hearing the military specs, yes?”

Tony sits back, appearing surprised. “They’ll just bore me. This isn’t a military product, it’s a superhero project. That is, if my intel on Night Monkey is true.” He’s watching Peter very closely. Peter prays that Osborn doesn’t notice, but he doesn’t have much hope.

“I’d like to hear the specs, myself,” one of the Ryan Chemical execs puts in. He’s terribly timid.

“Oh, well, _in that case-_ " Tony starts sarcastically, but Peter takes his shot.

“Thank you, that’s very considerate, let’s get started then,” Peter exhales in a rush, before anyone else can say anything.

Tony doesn’t even watch. Mark queues up the pertinent bits of Peter’s presentation to the military men from an age ago, cut with bland slides about the textile’s properties and financial projections. Peter keeps his eyes on his papers, and takes nonsense notes so he has an outlet for the raw, nerve-wracking energy being transferred to him by Mr. Stark’s stare.

He hears himself bag on SI and what happened in Sokovia and tries not to flinch.

“What’s that doing in there, I wonder,” Mr. Osborn murmurs, but no one reacts. They’re all well-trained, it seems, at this level of business.

After the presentation, Lillian—the bubbliest of the secretary pool—is called in to take coffee and tea and soda orders. After she leaves, Peter speaks up. “What questions can I answer for you gentlemen?” he asks mechanically. He could be replaced with a monkey with cymbals.

There’s a little cough, and Peter fights through his embarrassment to search it out. 

_Oh._ One of the Ryan Chemical VIPs is a woman. “Ma’am,” he adds and Peter is just. Tired.

“I don’t have any questions,” Tony says to everyone. “It all seemed abundantly clear to me, almost obvious, really,” he tacks on, tone pointed. No one from the Ryan team seems to have any inquiries, either, after such a pronouncement.

Lillian returns with a junior receptionist and trays of refreshments. Peter is glad for the reprieve, to be quite honest, or at least he is until he spies a platter laid out with pinwheel cookies. The sugar around their edges is Iron Man red.

As if having an out-of-body experience, Peter hears himself asking, “Are those Maurice Lenells?”

Lillian is all too happy to be asked an actual question about what she does, it seems. “Yes, of course. The annual Intra-Industry meeting, spearheaded by Mr. Stark, of course,” she stops to giggle, which makes Peter’s stomach flip, “is the only event that still receives these old things, by request. Oscorp was, of course, happy to host this year.”

“Thank you, Natalie,” Mr. Osborn intones, and both Peter and Tony snort quietly. It’s a little shock of recognition, of acknowledgment, that Peter really doesn’t need. “It’s a shame Hammer Industries couldn’t make it this year,” he adds.

“They weren’t _invited_ this year,” Tony grumbles, right in that range where probably only Peter can make out what he actually said, and it unlocks a sense of urgency in Peter’s heart and throat. He knows, in that moment, that Tony _knew_ Peter would be here, and wanted the supposedly rehabilitated Justin Hammer nowhere near him.

(He wants, absurdly, to go sit on the other side of the conference table.)

Lillian’s simper wilts a little. “You’re welcome, sir.”

Peter feels bad. “I only asked because I’m familiar with them, even tried to make some myself around Valentine’s Day. I don’t think they came out quite right,” he tells her, smiling conspiratorially. “So I appreciate your hard work, Lillian,” he adds, trying to be kind.

“Thank you,” she says back ever so quietly. Osborn is distracted talking to Tony, but when Peter takes a cookie, they stop. He bites into it and tries not to get crumbs all over himself.

Tony claps his hands, sucking in everyone’s attention. “So, let’s talk business. Let the scientists get back to work, yeah?”

“I can stay,” Peter pipes up nonsensically. Osborn is certainly paying attention now.

“Oh, well, have at it. I can’t,” Tony volleys back. “Norm, I’ll send the numbers to Menken?”

Peter stands before he thinks, closing his padfolio as he goes. For a second, it’s like they’re alone in the room, like Tony’s just taken him on a little tour of the Tower, for some reason, and wanted to show off the place where the really important meetings are held. It’s really only the sun that’s wrong; the windows on this floor face east. “I’ll escort you out then. Thank you all for your time today,” Peter offers quickly. 

He really doesn’t care if he gets fired at this point. It might be for the best.

“Wait, excuse me,” the woman from the Ryan team cuts in. “I _did_ actually have what I think is an intelligent question on-”

Tony cuts her off. “He’ll email you.”

Her disgruntled reply is cut off by the closing of the door. Peter doesn’t know who is whisking whom down the hallway, but he’s suddenly glad that he was late to the meeting and didn’t have time to drop off anything at his desk or else it would have to stay there. Apparently this train he’s taking to what he’s sure is going to be a major Talking To is nonstop, direct.

Tony hits the elevator button. Lillian is chirping something from reception, but Peter just looks at the light denoting which floor the damned thing is on and he tunes the rest out. The wait is awful, but he’s realizing now that what’s coming might be worse.

Ned’s words ring in his ears. _Honestly, he might not take you back, Peter._

Unfortunately, the elevator doesn’t come fast enough to save Peter from that thought, or from Norman Osborn’s towering rage. The older man has followed them out.

“So the truth comes out,” Osborn calls down the hallway, pausing only to cough. “I can’t decide if you’re going to go kiss his ass and beg for forgiveness, or the other way around, Parker. Well, good riddance to bad rubbish. If you go now then don’t come back.”

Peter takes out his phone with one hand, and puts the other on Tony’s elbow. He doesn’t want Mr. Stark to speak for him. “You’re firing me for escorting one of our valued industry thought leaders out of the office?” he confirms.

Osborn’s face twists. He looks almost inhuman. “No, I’m firing you, Parker, for being a faithless little invert who cares more about getting Humbert Humbert there to approve of him, than the company that was willing to feed and house him!”

_Ding._

Peter hits ‘pause’ on the video recording function on his phone. “Good to know. See you in court, sir,” he says and steps backward into the elevator, tugging Tony along with him by the sleeve.

It feels, for all the world, like webbing someone up from falling, as Spider-Man.

***

Peter’s back hits the back wall of the elevator, and he lets go of Tony’s sleeve. The doors close behind Tony, but he doesn’t move. He’s looking at his own elbow like he’s never seen it before.

For his part, Peter’s breathing is far too harsh. “Press the button for the lobby,” he instructs in a tired mumble. Then he closes his eyes and tries to calm down. He can’t believe he just _did that._

It’s long minutes before Peter feels steady enough to reach out with his senses. There’s one camera in the corner of the lift, near the ceiling. He doesn’t hesitate to cover it over with a web shot.

Tony does a double-take. “You- what?”

Peter makes sure the video of Osborn going off is saved both to his Starkphone and Friday’s secure cloud. Then he pulls up his email. He hands the device off to Tony; it’s the first time they’ve touched skin-to-skin since everything.

Peter stares at his reflection in the shiny silver surface of the elevator wall.

After a moment, Tony hands him back the phone. “If you do this,” he tells Peter, voice serious, “I won’t be able to fix it back.”

He nods to himself, but he knows Tony sees it too. The other Peter’s eyes are sad. Peter turns away, ready to face up to everything. “There are some things I don’t want you to fix for me, you get that right?”

Tony smooths down his tie and pats at the place in his jacket where he usually has sunglasses. He doesn’t take them out, though. “I do now,” Tony tells him. Then, after a beat, “I’m still mad.”

“I know,” Peter tells him.

“Okay.”

Peter absolutely will not cry. They’re almost to the lobby anyway. “Okay.” He looks at the floor.

Then, Tony must absolutely lose his mind, because he jams a finger at the button for one of the higher floors. “No, _not_ okay. We’re going back up.”

 _Jesus Christ. We’re as bad as each other,_ Peter thinks privately as his sadness blooms back into something approximating anger. _Boundaries, right?_ “No,” he argues firmly.

Tony seems incredulous. “No?” he asks, and this time he’s not smoothing down his tie or any other such self-soothing gesture; he’s taking it off instead. Then the jacket. Then the sleeves, which he rolls up to his elbows.

“No!” Peter seethes. “I don’t want you to punch Mr. Osborn in the nose like a cartoon dad, okay? I have it handled. Not only will I be filing unemployment, but Oscorp is going to owe me one hell of a discrimination settlement. Let me _do this,_ Tony.”

“Oh, kid,” Tony finally breaks, and a certain tone or… maybe just a kind of personal note that’s just for people Tony actually gives a crap about, something like that, leeches back into his voice. Everything is suddenly _on_ again. “You have no idea what I’m gonna let you do.”

“Wha-”

“Can I touch?”

 _What in the hell does_ that _mean?_ Peter is still asking. He hasn’t even caught up to the rest of it. He doesn’t really know what’s happening. “Yes?”

And that’s apparently all the permission the universe needs to have Peter’s back hit the wall of the elevator for the second time that day, his front otherwise occupied with being pressed up against the hard wall of Tony in front of him. For all the impulsive violence of his approach, the way he thumbs over Peter’s cheek and jaw is very, very gentle. “We’re gonna kiss now, and then the doors are probably gonna open on some kind of eldritch horror that Osborn’s cooking up before I’m done, so I’m counting on you to web the button for the lobby so we can go back down again, got it?”

 _You’re counting on_ me _?_ Peter is able to get about half-way through thinking, and then he might as well be dead, or dreaming, or drugged. _We’re gonna_ what _now?_

But it’s already happening. Tony kisses him almost the way Peter always imagined that he would, which is to say that he is very, very good at it, starting with just a firm press of the lips before they both take a quick breath in. It’s like the knock you give on the edge of an open door. Polite, necessary, a surprise… and just a precursor.

“Um-” Peter tries to hum, but Tony just hums back at him and kisses him again. It makes everything vibrate just a little, and Peter wants to laugh, so he does a tiny bit.

“Stop thinking,” Tony tells him as he pulls back a little. He’s smiling. “I can hear you thinking and I’d rather hear you breathing. You breathe nice.”

And that’s the moment that Peter realizes that Tony isn’t smooth, or perfect. Peter doesn’t need to feel unequal to Tony. He’s as big a dork as Peter. They’re the _same._ “You breathe nice, too, sir.”

Peter hits the button before the doors can open, on an eldritch horror or anything else, and then goes back to what he was doing. This time he takes the lead a little bit, which makes Tony smile into his mouth. Peter touches the edge of his facial hair. It’s a weird little angle that he’d know the curve of anywhere. “You’re still mad at me?” he manages to ask between a series of three tiny, little smooches. It’s two before the question, and then one after—just in case he never gets to do this again—like an interrupted ellipse.

“Furious.”

“Jesus, I’d hate to see you pleased with me then.”

“Fuck, kid, me too.”

***

They don’t go home to the penthouse together. That’s a bridge too far, and even if they’d braved it, Peter feels with certainty that it would have led nowhere. Instead, Tony goes to get Pepper on board with the plan, and Peter goes to see ‘Pool.

(In essence, they both need to catch up with their work wives.)

Before he goes, though, Peter gives the best apology he can give in the ten seconds before his bus leaves without him. His ‘elevator pitch’, as it were, though even he doesn’t dare make that pun out loud. “You and I are gonna talk about a lot of things, later. And I’m gonna talk about a lot of things to a lot of other people, including the press. But I promise, sir, that I’ll never cross the streams again. I’m really sorry.”

“Alright, Peter. Alright,” Tony says back, and it’s not what Peter expected. Tony doesn’t apologize back or give him some kind of impassioned speech, or tell Peter that what happened was really his own fault or just what Tony needed to hear, blah blah blah. It’s nothing so nice and perfect as that, which is heartening.

That’s how Peter knows it’s real.

(It helps, too, that as he’s almost across town to Wade’s place, Peter gets a text.)

**I lied. I’m always pleased with you.**

And then, before Peter’s smile has even faded:

**Thank you for apologizing.**

Peter texts back quickly, then pulls the string for his stop.

**I thought you were furious?**

Then, once he’s safely on the sidewalk:

 **I guess you can be both.** **  
** **Talk later? I’ll bring the pizza. 🍕**

Peter feels the buzz of a reply in his pocket but he doesn’t stop to check it; he trusts what it says, and that it’ll still be there, when he gets around to it.


	6. Et nul autre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is late. In my defense, I did not expect it to need 12 THOUSAND WORDS to finish.

Peter’s nervous to go out in the suit. It’s been too long.

But ‘Pool agreed and Pepper was prepared and he’d called May et al and there was nothing left to do but _do it._

He wonders if Mr. Stark is watching. He knows Osborn is, or will be, in moments. Menken will make sure of that.

Peter darts between buildings and over rooftops, parkouring his way as fast as possible, looking for cover. He needs people to see this happen, but they need to be at a safe distance as well. It’s apparent that his morning emails reached their destinations; the news copters following him from afar make that clear.

Peter pushes himself further and further. He has to catch up to the man in black, ahead of him, before he does this. That’s the plan. If he sticks to the plan, it’ll be fine. He’s not scared.

(He is.)

Peter catches up to his quarry. They argue, loud enough to be heard by the bystanders, whom Peter eyes warily. Then, out of the corner of his eye, there's a mass of red-and-gold. Iron Man herds people back to a safer distance, enforcing a buffer zone.

Peter leans on his enhanced strength and pushes the man in black away from him, just far enough. Then he closes his eyes, presses his switch, and lets the world explode in front of him.

***

It’s kinda gross, watching Deadpool regenerate from just bits of himself. Peter tries not to look at it for too long, and he distracts himself with answering his Twitter and his emails and the thousands of notifications of every kind that he suddenly has.

**Contact us for the opportunity to do an exclusive…**

And:

**The Office of Damage Control requires information concerning the theft of…**

Among others. Both Matt Murdock and Jennifer Walters reach out offering to represent him. Murdock primarily does criminal law, so he’s most interested in the carnage he and ‘Pool splashed all over Times Square today. ‘ _Night-Monkey is dead, long live Spider-Man’_ is the headline that _The Bugle_ is going with, for the special emergency online edition at least. Peter doesn’t click through to see if they’re being facetious or not.

Walters, by contrast, offers to represent him in the discriminatory firing suit against Oscorp. Peter mulls that over.

“I think I should retain my own lawyer,” he pipes up, “rather than use the SI team.”

Tony looks away briefly from the myriad of holo-layers cloaked around him, all analyzing Deadpool’s regeneration as it goes. “Okay, Peter. If that’s what you want,” he says guardedly.

“But,” Peter adds, suddenly shy. “Could you help me liaise with Damage Control? Or, even, just do that ‘I’m Tony Stark’ thing and take care of it, if you’re down for that?”

The smile Tony shoots his way is brilliant. “I’d be happy to. Hate to break it to you, though. You’re gonna have to sign the Accords now that the world knows who you are. There are gonna be interviews and they’re _all_ gonna ask you the same questions.”

“I know. Are you asking to help me with that, too?”

Tony glances back at the holos once more, then dismisses the two closest to him with a swipe, leaving the rest up. He appears to consider Peter’s question carefully. “You know who’s really great at that stuff? Nat. I could get a hold of her and ask?” He looks very hopeful as he says it.

Peter knows he’s being offered the middle ground and the whole thing goes against Tony’s instinct, his need to both control and protect. There’s something warm and pleased in his chest at the thought. “Sounds good,” he murmurs, and sets his pizza aside. He sits up, and watches Tony watch him do it.

It’s the easiest thing in the world to walk across the living room to where the hall begins. Peter puts his hand on the corner where the wall turns and leads towards the bedrooms, both Mr. Stark’s and the two that are for guests, plus the office that Tony rarely uses.

“Is it easier for you, if I just say what I want?” Peter asks, pressing all five fingers into the wall. He’s determined to do this right. “I think that’s what Ned was trying to tell me. That I should just say what I mean, and trust that you are too.”

Tony hums but doesn’t get up, doesn’t follow Peter. “Sure. But don’t feel bad for guarding your feelings, kid. I know it’s hard, being… vulnerable.”

“M’not a kid.”

“Not-a-kid, not-a-girl. I’m stuck with the two most contrary beings in New York right now, plus Deadpool. Gimme a break.”

Peter lets go of the wall and turns and leans instead. Tony is right where he left him.

“Are you gonna stand there and bitch all day or are you gonna show me your bedroom, sir?”

Tony looks at him, and looks and looks. It goes on for longer than should be comfortable. Finally, Tony scratches at his own jaw, smoothing through the cut of his facial hair. He seems nervous. “You’ve seen my bedroom.”

Peter bites his lip, sucking at it. He wants Tony to be the one doing that… he wants to be kissed again. “Seeing and being shown are different things,” he finally informs Tony, trying to sound mature. They’re both quiet as that statement lands in the room, settles into the carpet.

Then there’s an odd sort of whistling wheeze. It’s rhythmic. _Hee-hee-hee._

Deadpool’s half-coalesced chest cavity is rising and falling. “Oh my god,” Peter manages.

A singular, gnarled finger is moving shakily in and out of the round ‘o’ made by the raw, partially-formed fingers of the other hand. It’s an obscene gesture made only more obscene by the grisly sight of Deadpool’s meat-like skin, mid-regen.

“He’s _your_ friend,” Tony tells him.

Peter tries valiantly not to wither inside. Tony isn’t wrong. However, Peter rallies, and affects his most flirtatiously wheedling posture and expression. “You wanna get out of here?”

***

They do, though Peter isn’t sure his wiles had any effect. Mostly, he thinks, they were both tired of watching anatomy and physiology in action.

It’s not too long of a ride out to Queens, and Peter uses the time to text and make sure May is settled upstate at the compound; she’ll be there with Pepper until the initial wave of this whole ‘blew my secret identity’ thing is over with. Tony double- and triple-checks Friday’s protocols to make sure Deadpool is confined to the main living area, should his legs grow back quicker than anticipated. “He’s gonna drink all my booze,” Tony complains, but it doesn’t sound like his heart is really in it.

“I could keep an eye on him for ya,” Happy offers, voice doubtful and eyes on the road.

But Tony looks at Peter and then shakes his head. “I want you upstate with our girls, yeah?”

“Women,” Peter corrects, trained into it by MJ. Happy snorts, but he smiles at Peter in the rearview.

“Yeah, you know I’d never let anything happen to either of them. It’s gonna be fine. And, boss, I sent the Malibu team out to Berkeley for the _actual_ girl. It’s gonna take a few more hours for them to make the journey but they’ll watch her back while the Iron Legion sits on your buddy, Ned, alright, Peter?”

It’s slightly thrilling to have Happy address him and Tony in the same breath, asking for his input on Michelle’s safety and treating him like Tony’s equal, not some stupid kid he’s been assigned to. “Sounds like a plan.”

Tony makes like he’s adjusting Peter’s seatbelt for him, but then he just places his palm flat on Peter’s chest, under the shoulder belt. It’s warm and steadying. “I’m proud of you.”

Peter looks away from Tony’s serious, sincere expression to check whether or not Happy is watching them. He’s not—he’s focused on driving—but the man does adjust the rearview and catch Peter’s eye. “I’m proud of you, too,” Happy says gruffly.

Tony pats his chest once and then pulls his hand away while Peter collects himself. “Thanks,” he manages after a few minutes, meaning it for both of them. “Can we stop in Kew Gardens real quick? Gotta grab something from the store.”

“Sure,” Happy tells him without even confirming it with Tony and Peter feels that thrill again. “But there are condoms in the glove box if you’d rather save time.”

“Wha-”

Tony cuts him off. “You keep them in the _glove box?_ Happy, you _dog._ You know the name’s not meant to be taken literally, right? It’s for actual gloves like for your hands, I think, but you can put whatever your little heart desires in there. I’m the boss, I say so.”

Peter leans forward to wrap his arms around the back of the empty seat in front of him and hides his face in the back of the headrest. “I’m gonna actually die. I didn’t like that guy that filled in for you, but at least he didn’t try to _kill me with embarrassment."_

“If I kill Spider-Man, do you have to arrest me, boss?” Happy puts in drily, ignoring Peter’s continuing theatrics. “Also, that guy works for Oscorp, I’ll have you know.”

Peter pushes back into his seat. He looks at Tony.

“What are you looking at? I made a mistake.”

“I’m lookin’ at you, sir. Explain.”

Happy takes a left turn smoothly, but it makes Peter shift into Tony’s space as his weight and momentum marry themselves to make it happen. It’s only then that he realizes he’s usually seated on the other side of the car whenever Happy picks him up. Tony’s behind Happy without a seatbelt.

“Also, put on your fuckin’ seatbelt, what are you, a kid? If there’s an accident, your bodyweight being thrown forward will contribute to Happy’s injuries. Basic physics, Tony.”

Happy hoots, startling them both. “You tell him.”

“There’s not gonna be an accident,” Tony says firmly. He takes Peter’s hand.

“Oh, well, I’ll just unbuckle myself then-”

“Don’t.” Tony drops Peter’s hand and buckles himself in quickly. “Jesus, fine. How many car-crash-adjacent dead parents does a guy have to have before he’s allowed his idiosyncrasies?”

Peter tilts his head. “Still confused. But sorry anyway.”

“For the longest time, the scene made it look like they died of smoke inhalation… strapped in and too weak to unbuckle and crawl away,” Tony says shortly. _Oh,_ Peter thinks. “But you’re right, that’s no reason to potentially mess up Happy’s back even worse than it already is. If you can do Alba’s, I can do this. That’s where we’re headed, yeah?”

“That alright, Happy?”

“Sure is.”

The rest of the ride is silent.

***

Yuyan is happy to see him, at least.

“Hey! You’re on evenings, now?” Peter greets her.

“I’m on whenever I have time, mister,” she tells him. Tony, in sunglasses, seems to be trying not to react.

“What? I know people,” Peter informs him. “Besides you.”

“I _know_ that-”

“Oh my god, Peter Parker. I remember you now, you really _are_ Spider-Man. Tony Stark! Oh my god,” the younger girl rushes out, spitting her gum into the trash hastily.

Peter tries to be cool. “I’m sorry, did my demonstration not convince you? Also, I called here like three times apologizing about not having the cameras ready for you guys yet.”

“No, it did, I just- Tony _Stark.”_

Peter goes to pick out ice cream, content to let Tony bask if he wants to. They really shouldn’t be out in public at all, so it’s imperative that they get in and get out. “He’s not as exciting as he seems. You’ll get over it!” he calls back to Yuyan as he goes.

“I saw you both on the news!” she shouts, matching his volume so that it carries back towards the freezers. “Sorry about Night Monkey, I guess. Did he really steal from you?!”

Peter grabs some of the Avengers’ Ben&Jerry’s line and books it back to the register. “Yep,” he answers her as simply as possible. Maybe Yuyan will post about this on social media and really get the story catching like wildfire. He’s not gonna let Oscorp hold the Night Monkey suit over his head.

And if it tanks their stocks due to lack of confidence in their ability to secure their own tech and their own employees, even if one of them _was_ Spider-Man, Peter considers that a fringe benefit.

Also, they fired Spider-Man for being queer, according to the video of Norm Osborn’s quivering, angry jowls. _Checkmate._

“Wait,” Peter says, stopping. “Do you want chocolate sauce for this, Tony?”

“Have we _met_ , Mr. Parker?" Tony volleys back, but Yuyan has gone suddenly quiet. “I’d love some chocolate, thanks,” he adds awkwardly. They’re both unsure as to what’s happening.

Yuyan practically vibrates in place. “Oh my god, _you’re_ ‘Anthony’? Spider-Man’s valentine, that Anthony?”

Peter turns around and swiftly goes to grab the chocolate sauce. He blocks out the sound of Tony inquiring as to what the teenager means by that. This is just like the Jerome situation, he can see this coming. He shouldn’t have talked about Tony behind his back. _Fuck his luck._

Yuyan is nothing if not efficient, though, so Peter gets rung up quickly and hands her some cash. She gives him his change, which he goes to pocket before Tony takes the coins from him faster than Peter can react. Peter’s too miserable to banter over it. “See ya, Yuyan.”

They get back in the car with Happy, who seems to notice the shift in Peter’s mood. “So, kid, you wanna hear the story of how the smartest man on the planet hired a corporate spy to drive you two around Cambridge?”

Tony beans the back of Happy’s headrest with a penny. It goes bouncing off.

“You’re never gonna find that,” Peter intones morosely.

“Oh no, my fortune, gone with the wind.”

It’s a short trip to May’s place from the store, but Happy manages to explain how Tony had simply called the Boston branch of the service Happy usually uses when someone in Tony’s inner circle needs a driver at the same time as Tony needs Happy elsewhere.

“I thought it’d be the same!”

“What he didn’t understand,” Happy continues over top of what Tony is saying, ”is that I have very meticulously vetted everyone at the New York branch, and am kept informed of any new hires. Not so much in Boston, Pete. You can see where the problem comes in. The problem being Tall, Dark, and Dumbass back there.”

Tony holds his shoulder belt away from his body, though at least he’s wearing it. “Bozo posted on social media about 'driving Tony Stark'. Oscorp called and made him an offer before he’d even picked us up, probably. I’m so sorry, Peter. That’s probably how they got wind of you.”

“Probably?”

“Okay, fine, it definitely is.”

“Fantastic,” Peter deadpans, looking out the window.

Tony touches his arm, then the edge of his eyebrow with a gentle thumb when Peter doesn’t so much as twitch to begin with. “Hey, I’m sorry, okay? My fault. Mea culpa.”

Peter conjures up a smile for him as Happy rolls to a stop. “S’fine. Let’s get inside.”

Tony looks at him, and he still seems concerned. 

"Also, no offense, but you're really not Tall. Dark and Dumbass or otherwise."

That seems to sell things a little better. Tony gives Peter a tiny nod like he's reassured. "Alright."

***

Tony almost immediately sets his scant amount of things down on the end table next to the sofa; Peter busies himself with putting away the dessert. 

“I can sleep here. Do you have blankets and things?”

Peter tries not to take it as a rejection, even though it feels like it. He’s _trying,_ here. He’s trying to trust Tony to say what he means.

(Of course, so far, Tony hasn’t said much of anything.)

It’s killing him, though. Still, Peter dutifully digs out a spare pair of pillows and several blankets for Tony to use. He even offers the man May’s bed, suggesting that Peter could make it up fresh for him. May, if she were here, would want him to offer. Tony declines, though, the height of politeness.

Once the blankets are handed over, Peter stands for a moment. Waits.

“The couch converts to a bed, if you want. If you don’t mind… pulling it out,” Peter tells Tony awkwardly.

“It’s fine how it is,” Tony makes to say, but Peter is already working at the mechanism. Tony steps back, out of its way. It makes the living space seem even tinier than it already is.

(Even cheaper. Dingier. More humiliating.)

Peter considers, momentarily, sneaking out to the bar several streets over for a drink. Maybe some Chinese food, too. It’s not as though Tony would probably notice, as long as Peter waited a suitable amount of time and used his bedroom window. Tony _might_ be expecting Peter to come out and talk, though. They owe each other explanations.

Tony could, conceivably, come to Peter's room. The very idea boggles the mind, but Peter hadn't been prepared to be kissed on the elevator either.

“Good night,” Peter tells Tony absently, lost to the sense memory, and the other man echoes him.

Peter almost just escapes like that, but Tony grabs his wrist and makes him turn back. “Hey,” he says and gives Peter a hug. “It’s fine. May’s fine. Everyone’s fine.”

“Yep. Sleep well.” Peter tries everything to evade any intent Tony might have to Talk About It. 

Peter goes to his room and gets mostly undressed, opting for minimal clothing so that the nanotech armor can flow right over it, should the apartment be targeted in the night. That prospect, however scary, gives him plenty to think about as he settles under the covers.

He also thinks about how the ‘can I touch’ boundary has completely dissolved. It doesn’t bother him, because the entire point had been to limit touching to lessen his attraction to Tony, who Peter had deemed off-limits. Of course, that had gone _spectacularly._

That drink looks like a better and better idea, the more Peter considers it. However, the whole world newly knows he’s Spider-Man, as of today. Like Yuyan, they’d also spent the afternoon watching him pull off his Spider-Man mask, covered in Wade’s blood, right after seeing ‘Night Monkey’ explode himself rather than be caught and confronted for his attack on Peter Parker and the theft of the kinetic super-suit from Oscorp’s lab. He’s sure the news played it over and over.

Peter doesn’t think going for a drink is a great idea, just now. He and Tony can’t even go on a proper date. (Not that he’s been invited on one.)

Instead, Peter settles in his bed and picks up his cell. He _had_ said he would try to say what he means, say what he needs. Maybe it’ll be easier like this.

“Happy Halloween,” he greets Tony, when he picks up.

“I- I’m. What?” Peter can hear him in stereo, if he focuses. The walls are thin.

“Happy _Halloween,_ sir,” Peter tries again, this time with more emphasis. “MIT sucks and I hate sorority parties.”

It takes Tony a moment, though it’s surely less time than it would have taken anyone else, Peter privately believes. “Oh. Okay. Uh, what sucks about MIT, in your opinion? I really enjoyed it, myself.”

“No one wants to kiss me there- here, I mean,” Peter says, roleplaying through his random fit of honesty. “And I don’t want to kiss any of them. They’re all too rich, and some of them are smarter than me, both of which are fine in theory, but…”

Tony sighs, and waits. Peter waits, too, to see if the end of that sentence will make itself known. “But?” Tony finally prompts. There's a sound of shifting around down the line, a sound of creaky sofa-bed springs.

“...I think I only like those things when you do them,” Peter tells him. “Which is really gross and insecure of me, but there you have it. I’m sorry, I-”

The sound of Tony breathing out, entirely too loudly, cuts Peter off. “No, it’s okay. It’s good. We’re good. I understand.”

“I did make some friends,” Peter ventures. “Before I left.”

“Yeah?” Tony exhales. Peter’s trying to decipher the odd note in his voice, but it’s difficult.

 _This is stupid. I should just go talk to him. I could show him pictures of Ry and Spence on my phone. He’s twenty feet away, unless he got up or something._ “Are you laying down?”

The line goes very quiet. “Yeah, I am. What about it?” Tony finally answers him, flipping the question back on Peter.

“I don’t know! I was just thinking about how it sucks we can’t go on a real date, like a movie or dinner, or a bar, even.”

There's a sound, then, that takes Peter a few seconds to place. "You are _never_ allowed to be with me at a bar," Tony tells him. "Even once you're old enough."

It's the kind of telling admission that makes Peter want to give something of himself back to the conversation, to even things out. _We're the same,_ Peter wants to say. "I've been drinking a lot lately," he manages instead. It's really mostly a whisper, but he knows Tony heard him from the intake of breath. 

"May told me," Tony tells him. Peter closes his eyes. 

"That wasn't her thing to tell. I shoulda been the one to tell you," Peter mumbles. 

"Yeah, well."

"Well, what?" 

"Well-water, deep subject," Tony answers him tangentially. "Wet, too."

"I'll show you wet," Peter gets out on the back of a laugh. It comes out sultrier than intended.

Tony snorts. "Yeah, yeah, you're all talk."

 _That's it._ Peter throws back the covers. He wasn’t that comfortable in his stupid tiny bed anyway. "I am not."

"Are too."

"R2-D2?" Peter volleys back, even as he leans into everything he's ever learned from Natasha about stealth to avoid making too much noise as he leaves his room and steals down the hallway. 

This whole area of the floor in-between the living room and the rest of the house creaks, there's no getting around that, but at least he has the element of surprise since Tony is still chuckling at Peter's stupid joke. 

Peter lands next to Tony on the pull-out bed with a groan of the springs _._ "Happy Valentine's Day."

"I thought it was Halloween," Tony protests mildly, but the words are just placeholders. His eyes are otherwise occupied with drinking Peter in. The lamps are still on; Peter wonders if Tony is that worried about the apartment being targeted.

"I lied," Peter tells him simply, thinking of the text from before. _I'm always pleased with you,_ it had also said. 

"Yeah. There's a lot of that going around," Tony puts in. "You know we have to talk about it. No matter how many puns you make."

Peter takes in the picture Tony makes even as he processes what he’s saying, and his stomach flips. “It?” he clarifies. “Do you mean ‘it’ like all the fucked up things I did to try and impress you, or ‘it’ like the tent you’re pitching in those sweatpants?”

Tony passes a hand over his face like he can’t believe Peter right now. _Peter_ can’t believe Peter right now. “Fuck you, kid,” Tony says, but without much venom.

“ _Excellent_ idea.”

Tony starts laughing at Peter’s antics, however earnest, near-immediately. He has the heels of both hands pressed against his eyes now, and Peter reaches out and touches his elbow, right where he did pulling Tony into the elevator the other day. This time it’s skin-to-skin and Peter walks his fingers up Tony’s bare arm, and tugs at the edge of Tony’s T-shirt sleeve, sneaking his finger in under the edge and against Tony’s bicep. It’s a strangely erotic action, from Peter’s perspective.

Tony pulls his hands away from his face, and his eyes come out bright, underneath. “You actually wanna do this?” he asks Peter, voice tinged with no small amount of wonder.

Peter takes Tony’s wrist, so much thicker than his, and pulls it towards himself. He makes Tony extend his arm out so Peter can situate it under him and into the gap his neck makes with the duvet, and not crush it when he snuggles into Tony for a laying-down hug. He makes kind of a production of it because he’s never cuddled with anyone in a bed before, and he needs to figure it out. Tony lets him, smiling a little like Peter can’t see him doing it. _Fucker._

It’s sort of needlessly complicated, this snuggling thing. Peter loves it.

“I really do,” he answers belatedly, face smushed into Tony’s neck, breathing him in.

Tony’s hand smooths up Peter’s back, over his shirt, and settles around one shoulder blade before he squeezes Peter a little. “Okay. Alright, Pete.” Tony’s fingers perch there, around the jut of bone, but he stretches his hand and thumbs over the thin skin on the back of Peter’s tricep, right where it meets his shoulder, almost his armpit. It’s sort of _everything._

Peter shivers and knows his skin is pebbling up. “I’m not cold. I’m just really… sensitive,” he preempts, anticipating Tony’s concern.

“That’s good. Perfect,” Tony tells him, though he stops petting at Peter’s arm. “There are parts of me I literally cannot feel anymore, so be grateful. One day you’ll be old, too.”

Peter scoots back a couple of inches so that he can see Tony’s face and so they’re not breathing on each other. “Oh, I dunno, sir. I think you were feeling pretty young on the phone,” he murmurs, playing his ace. Tony’s scandalized face tells Peter that he’s not mistaken.

“I-”

“Were you touching yourself while I was talking?”

“Peter-”

“I know what I heard. Also, it totally reminded me of our call on New Year’s.”

Tony rolls toward him, but not for any other purpose than to roll over on his stomach and hide his face in the pillow, his mouth against Peter’s arm. “Oh my _god_ , I’m as bad as you. I feel like an embarrassed teenager, what the fuck, Pete?”

Peter tries not to laugh at Tony. He’s so rarely seen him like this; it’s adorable. “Well, I-”

Then Tony catches up to what he said, scrambling up, no longer hiding. “You little shit.”

Peter can’t hold back his laughter any longer, and he lets it out all at once, only managing to cover his mouth after a moment of pure mirth. Tony is staring at him like he’s in big trouble, which only makes Peter laugh harder. “I’m sorry!” he finally manages.

“You’re gonna be. I can’t believe you, Jesus Christ,” Tony tells him, and then his fingers are threading through Peter’s hair and pushing him back down onto the mattress. The other hand comes up and wipes at the slight tears at the corner of Peter’s eyes from laughing, and then they’re kissing again.

It’s better than last time, more confident and less hesitant, as Tony presses their lips together. Peter tries to meet him, but he lacks the level of experience needed to really keep up. He’s kissed plenty of girls and a few guys, but not many.

Last time, Peter struggled to focus on how everything felt, he was so wrapped up in his own shock and how the movement of the elevator or maybe even the kiss itself made him feel like he was an inch off the ground. He'd been thinking, performing. He'd wanted to figure out what to do next. He'd wanted to know what Tony was telling him with every detail of how they'd touched. 

This time, there's more space between them, Tony is listening more than telling, and Peter counts on his superior strength to allow him to press up and close that space as many times as Tony will let him. At one point, Tony puts his hand back on the center of Peter's chest, like he had in the car, and Peter stills. 

"A little slower. I'll show you," Tony instructs. 

He leans up on his elbow and smiles at Peter. It's not any different, really, than a thousand smiles Peter has seen from him over the years but this time it hits different. Tony reaches out and pushes Peter's hair out of his eyes, then uses that same hand to urge Peter forward, making Peter come to him. 

Tony lets Peter kiss _him,_ something that Peter is still privately marveling at, but this time he guides Peter into it. It settles something in Peter's brain, to know he doesn't have to worry about getting it just right on his own. 

The first one is short, just a glorified peck, but Tony groans into him and when Peter draws back he hinges his thumb on the center of Peter's bottom lip and they both open their mouths a little more and _wow._

Peter could get used to this. He sinks into the feeling, finally putting his hands on Tony as well: on his arm, on his jaw, on his neck, and taking great pains to make all of his touches feather-light.

The noise Tony makes with that last one nearly burns Peter's palm, figuratively speaking. It's hot as hell, rumbling up from Tony's chest, and Peter draws back, surprised.

"Why haven't we been doing this literally all night?" he asks hazily, after he realizes the effect he's having. "I call shenanigans."

"If you can still think well enough to both say 'shenanigans' _and_ ask questions, I'm not doing my job," Tony quips. "M'losing my mojo."

"You're really not," Peter argues. "Where am I? Who am I? How did we get here?" he jokes. He rests his forehead on Tony's collarbone, snuggling into him again. Peter's hard… he's pretty sure they both are, but it's not urgent. This is good. This is nice.

"Good question," Tony tells him. "One we really need to answer, I think."

"Yeah."

"Wow, talkative aren't you, kid?" Tony teases him. "It's almost as if you've been kissed stupid."

"Ha. Ha. Ha," Peter deadpans slowly.

“I’m serious, though,” Tony informs him. “How did we get here? How did we get here from… I dunno. From me buying you groceries and not being allowed to know where you live, to making out on May's couch. From you going to work for Oscorp and not calling, to your new best friend Yuyan thinking I'm your Valentine?"

Peter says the most honest thing he can. "I've wanted you to look at me- see me. I've wanted you to _see_ me the way you saw me in that elevator, since I was fifteen."

"Don't say that. Jesus. Don't _say_ that," Tony laments. "You were so grown up in that meeting. Even though I could tell they hadn't told you jack shit, and that you'd rather be anywhere else."

"Thanks," Peter manages. "I gotta ask you something, though."

"Okay."

"It's really important to me."

_"Okay."_

Peter clears his throat. "Would you have kissed me if I hadn't been fired?" 

Tony stills. "What?" 

"Would you have… forgiven me? _Am_ I forgiven? Would we be here if Osborn hadn't lost his shit?"

Less than a minute passes while Tony just looks his fill, Peter notices, but it feels like longer. Peter thinks, suddenly, again, _We’re the same._ And then: _He’s probably wondering if this is the last time he’ll get to look at me like this, if he answers wrong._

“The only wrong answer is a lie,” Peter informs him softly.

Tony sighs and sits all the way up, swinging his legs over the side of the awful, thin mattress with his back to Peter. “I have several very serious character flaws, kid. Jealousy is one of them, but.”

Peter looks at the ceiling. There’s a slight water stain. “But?”

“It’s definitely not the only one. Another is wanting you, someone young enough to be my son, or worse. That’s pretty bad, Peter, no- don’t interrupt me. It is. What does it say about me that I can’t make things work with someone my age? An age-mate, they call it. Someone who has the same experiences, the same frame of reference, the same cadence to their life. You deserve someone who can give you the best years of their life.”

What Peter hears first is that Tony _wants_ him. It fizzles through him like a ground fault. But he hears the rest, too. “You gave the whole world the best years of your life. I don’t think that was the wrong choice,” Peter reasons. “Maybe now is just for you and… whoever you wanna be with.” He dares to sit up too, though he doesn’t touch Tony.

When man speaks, Peter can hear the self-deprecating smile from here. “That’s kind of you, Peter. Optimistic.” It doesn’t really sound like Tony believes him.

“You’re welcome,” Peter ghosts out, watching Tony’s back flex as he scratches at his jaw and pushes his hair back, even tucking some behind his ears, otherwise resting his arms on his knees. It’s getting long and floofy. Slightly greyer. “Where do you get your hair cut?”

“Rhodey does it. I don’t like people I don’t know touching my neck,” Tony murmurs, even as he swings his legs back up and gets back under the blanket, laying down. That checks out. “Sorry, I panicked. Back to snuggling, if you want. Besides, my back hurts.”

“From the explosion?”

“Nah, I’m just old. I keep trying to impress that upon you but you just don’t get it, huh?”

“I get it,” Peter defends himself. “But maybe you should impress things upon me some more.”

Peter stays there the rest of the night, wrapped up in Tony’s arms.

Just before he drifts off, Tony tells him gently, “I was gonna kiss you regardless. You could work for Oscorp for thirty years, and I’d still come get you. You’re mine, if you want to be.”

Peter smiles into Tony’s arm, where he rests with his mouth against it. “I want.”

***

Around 3am, Tony wakes Peter up, coming back from the bathroom. “Sorry, honey. Being old also means middle of the night bathroom excursions.”

“S’fine,” Peter whispers. “This is my favorite time of night. My parents used to come home from work late, and check on me. I can barely remember, but it was dark like this. Cool and quiet.” He reaches out for Tony.

Tony wraps him back up in a little taquito of warm limbs, but Peter has to stretch. He cracks his toes and reaches his arms up so his back will pop. It makes his T-shirt ride up, and Peter catches Tony watching. “Hi,” Tony says.

“Hi. Did you check the apartment while you were up?”

“Used my watch scan. Friday says no signs of anyone. Does that jive with your Peter tingle?”

Peter snorts. “Yes. But don’t call it that.”

“Do you mean ‘it’ like all the fucked up things I did to try and impress you,” Tony mutters into his hair, turning Peter’s earlier teasing against him, “or ‘it’ like the tent you’re pitching in those sweatpants?” He smooths his hand up Peter’s back, taking the T-shirt with it. Then he runs his blunt fingernails down Peter’s suddenly-bared spine and pulls him closer.

Peter gasps. “It’s just morning wood, you don’t have to-”

“I want to. If it’s okay with you.”

“It’s _so_ okay, oh my god.”

“Good,” Tony tells him before he insinuates his leg between Peter’s two. “Because I have questions. Answer and you get good-touches? I’m too tired to talk around the issue anymore, kid. If there’s something you can’t answer right now, then tell me and I’ll back off for now.”

“Twenty Questions, Adult Version. Twenty Questions After Dark,” Peter posits.

“You got it,” Tony tells him. Peter can just make out his eyes in the dark. He curls his hand around Peter’s ear, resting his thumb in the space between the edge of Peter’s eye socket and his wispy sideburn. “Why’d you leave Cambridge?”

“I missed you,” Peter informs him immediately. Making it a game makes it so much easier to say. “I missed New York. I didn’t want to take the grant.”

Tony hums and slides the hand on Peter’s face back, thatching through the hair at the back of Peter’s head, pulling a little. Peter bites his lip. “You like that?” Tony asks him. Peter nods, making it pull even more. “Sneaky. Why didn’t you want the grant?”

Peter knows this one too. It settles his brain, to feel like he’s taking a test he’s perfectly prepared for. Tony’s a genius. “I want us to be equals. I wanna make my own way. I want to be your partner, not your heir.”

“Fuck,” Tony tells him, wide-eyed in the dim of the room. Peter lets him plant an open-mouthed kiss on him. Tony follows it up with a series of barely-there brushes of his mouth up to the hinge of Peter’s jaw. “I didn’t expect you to say that,” he rumbles in Peter’s ear, before drawing back.

He guesses it’s his turn to ask a question of his own. “Why not?”

Tony sighs. “I thought I was doing rather well at the whole mentor-slash-father-figure thing. Pepper tried to tell me, so I guess I owe her some flowers or something. You’ve always been gorgeous, especially since you grew into those ears at about nineteen. I just thought… I thought I was doing good. Keeping a safe distance. Keeping my cool.”

Peter runs his finger along Tony’s collarbone, then taps at the little notch below his throat. “You did fine. After Ben, I wasn’t looking for that, though. You get that, right? And then Happy… No offense, but he’s a little better at the whole stern support thing.”

“I noticed you got a little emotional in the car last night. We’re both proud of you. He meant that; I can tell.”

It’s Peter’s turn to sigh. “I know. And I know that _you_ know what it’s like to want paternal approval. But I had that from Ben, even at the end. And Happy, now. I don’t need that from you.”

A pause. Peter allows it. “What if _I_ need to give it to you?”

Peter takes hold of Tony’s bristle-y jaw and taps it a few times. “Too bad. Those are _your_ daddy issues, not mine. I’ll go with you to every therapist in town, though, if that’s what you want. Whatever it takes,” he tells him, letting go.

Tony just watches him. Breathes. Shakes his head. "We're so similar. Peter, baby, you. You have to know by now. It would be so much easier for me to not love you if I weren't such a goddamn narcissist. If God had FaceTune and for the insides too, that's you for me. You get that, right?" 

Peter’s fingers tingle and the breath he takes in is so clear and fresh. He can't look away from the view of Tony in front of him in the quiet pre-morning gloom. "What?" There is no other knowledge he needs than the answer to this question.

“I love you,” Tony puts forth suddenly. “I can’t believe we slept here in the same bed and I didn’t tell you. That’s why I didn’t open your gift; I thought it was chocolates and I was already planning on moping with Fri and Rhodey and eating them all in one sitting. It’s why I was so mad about Jerry. I'm in love with you and apparently I have half a shot, and I had to hear it from him and not you.”

“I don’t follow,” Peter lets him know. “Also I thought I was supposed to be the one answering questions and getting pets,” he complains, but it’s mostly because his heart is pounding. _Do I say it back? I love you, I love you, I love you,_ he chants internally, anxiety spiraling high in his chest. _Surely he must already know._ Peter touches Tony’s chest, hand bumping over the nano-tech housing.

“He told me congratulations and then gave me a shovel talk. I thought- I couldn’t figure out why you would tell him something like that, Pete. It felt like a cosmic joke. It felt like I _was_ the joke.”

Peter is hit, then, with the knowledge of how much strength it must have taken for Tony to show up at Oscorp, much less to touch him in the elevator. Peter could have done anything, could have rejected him and forced them to ride together in stilted silence. He could have reacted like Tony was molesting him. Jesus. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You don’t have to say it back.”

Peter does love him, but he’s not sure if he can say it right now. He’s too upset with himself. “I see you. I like you. I think you’re the best,” Peter says instead, thinking of their conversation from Halloween. Then he decides to say what he’s feeling now. “I always have. I want you to stay. I want you to go back to touching me.”

“I can do that,” he’s told. Tony moves his right hand from high up on Peter’s bare back, under his armpit, to cover over an already-aroused nipple. Peter tries not to let his breath hitch but it’s a losing proposition. “Sensitive here, too, kid?”

“Don’t call me kid.”

“Okay, baby.”

 _Fuck._ He can live with that. Tony takes his fingers more firmly to Peter’s left nipple this time, and Peter’s dick jolts. He pushes his hips forward instinctively, rubbing against Tony’s thigh. “Fuck,” he huffs, out loud this time.

“There you go, honey. Just like that,” Tony instructs. Then he seems to want to get back to the question game, because he slides his hand back down and around Peter’s hip, fingers pressing into the small of Peter’s back, urging him to keep up the little hitching motions against Tony’s own thigh. Then he asks, “Have you ever done this before?”

“This? Actually, yes. There was a guy my junior year of high school, but this was all we did. I didn’t really like him. Some jock. Looked like Captain Rogers.”

“Of course he did,” Tony mutters. “Because you’re the twink cliché made flesh. Jesus fuck,” Tony spits out, seemingly almost as affected by Peter’s movement as Peter is. “Do you have lube somewhere?”

“Somewhere,” Peter echoes lazily. Tony kisses him on the forehead, but it appears to be mostly a cover for Tony laughing at him. “Hey, what do I look like? A boy scout?”

Tony actually pushes him back, off of his thigh, to look at him and consider the question. “A wet dream.”

“Wet dream or not, I’m not getting up to get lube,” Peter says petulantly. “I _was_ comfortable.”

The sky is lighter now, outside. Tony just shakes his head. “Fine. You showered?”

“After Deadpool Gallagher’d himself all over me? Yeah, for sure.”

Tony licks his lips. “You’re too young to know Gallagher, don’t lie to me,” he tells Peter, but he also carries on curling his fingers into Peter’s sweatpants, yanking them down in the back until they’re just past Peter’s ass. “Get your cock out, baby. I wanna see how wet you are.”

“I- _fuck._ I saw him in a YouTube compilation.” Peter hooks his sweatpants out and under his erection, hoping this is right.

“Uh-uh, I wanna see that pretty little sack too. Push those pants down for me.”

Peter does it, quick, with a burning face. Tony purrs his approval, nuzzling into Peter’s forehead and wrapping his hand around Peter’s length between them. His palm is warm and Peter shudders through his pleasure. _Tony Stark is touching my dick. Tony Stark loves me and is touching my dick. Holy shit._ “Holy shit,” Peter says aloud.

“Holy shit is right,” Tony exhales, too soft to be smug, but otherwise seeming immensely pleased with himself. His grip is tight, just how Peter likes it. His free hand draws circles on Peter’s back, giving him some kind of counterpoint, something to focus on so this isn’t over way too fast. “You _did_ try to tell me, I guess. I didn’t realize you’d be so nice and slick for me, Pete.”

Peter is too turned on to be embarrassed. “Since the bite, my senses. I- I leak a lot and I come fast, I. I’m sorry, this is not gonna be… it’s not gonna take long.”

The circles around his spine keep going, steadying. Tony sets up a wicked little twist to his hand as he jacks Peter tight and slow. Peter feels like he’s gonna die. “It’s okay,” Tony tells him. “I like it. I like how much you want me. On the phone-”

 _Fuck._ “On the phone, you were, oh. Oh, God,” Peter guts out. He’d had it confirmed earlier, but it hits different now, in the thick of things. “Why though? I wasn’t trying to be…” _Sexy._ Peter doesn’t say that. But it’s wild, to think, sexy is something that Peter can _be_ now. For Tony. Just wild.

"I was so tired, baby. It's been a hell of a day. And you sounded so sleepy too, and you were saying how you only like _me_ being richer and smarter than you, and no one else. Gah, Peter." 

Peter tries to focus on the words and not how his soul feels like it's about to leave his body through his hard-on. "Yeah? You like a little ego-stroking with your… _ego-_ stroking? Who woulda thought?" he pants. 

Tony snorts. In what appears to be retaliation, the hand on Peter's back dips down to his ass. He takes a great handful of Peter's cheek and just kneads it, pulling a little. Embarrassingly, it makes Peter's hole twitch which runs a live wire straight to his balls. "Guh."

"You're something else, honey. Keep running that mouth, see where it gets you."

Peter makes another embarrassing noise as Tony continues playing with him. He doesn't know whether to arch back or push forward at this point. "If it gets me to come, I seriously don't care."

There's a low groan that Peter can feel in Tony's chest when he presses his face to Tony's shoulder. "Yeah, Pete. Want you to come, I really do. You want to?" The apartment could honestly burn down right now and Peter doesn't think either of them would notice. Especially not when Tony does a long, slow squeeze to milk the maximum amount of precome possible from Peter’s cock, the better to jack him faster with. Holy hell. 

What was the question? "Uh, duh," Peter manages, voice a high whine. His control is slipping.

"You're such a brat. It's called dirty talk."

"I want to, _fuck._ I really- I want to, Tony. I want you to make me feel good."

"I know, baby. I got you," Tony says back, and touches a dry, callused fingertip to the very center of Peter's pucker. He doesn't push or try to penetrate, Tony just rests his finger there, rubbing slightly like it's a place made for him to do so. 

Like it's a place he owns. 

Peter shoots so hard he feels it in his calf muscles, from flexing his toes. His head feels light and hot. Christ.

"Oh my god," Peter exhales.

Tony chuckles. "Better than the jock?" He pets at Peter's lower back, helping him come down.

"Fuck yeah."

"Good," Tony says smugly. "M'gonna have to burn these clothes though."

Peter pulls back and observes the Jackson Pollock he's made of Tony's sweatpants and T-shirt. His face heats. He closes his eyes as he tucks himself away and jerks his own pants back up over his hips. "Sorry, sir."

"No, no, sorry, I was teasing, Pete. It was hot as hell. _You_ were hot as hell, I promise. You were perfect."

"Okay," Peter says, doubtful, but he opens his eyes. "Sounds fake, but alright."

Tony’s just looking at him. "Kid, I could watch you come for the rest of my life, I swear to God. I can prove it even."

Peter knows precisely the proof Tony has in mind. It's hard to miss. It's kind of… big. "Can I?" he asks, gesturing at Tony's sizeable erection, still trapped under clothes and likely becoming maddening by this point. "Please?" 

"Only if you want, honey."

"I want," Peter tells him emphatically, but he doesn't go right for it. Instead, Peter pushes at Tony's shoulder until he's flat on his back, then he sits up himself to pull his shirt over his head. He uses it to wipe off Tony's shirt as best he can, though he leaves whatever streaks of come there are on the front of Tony's sweats. Peter has other plans for that. 

Then Peter leans down and pulls Tony into an open-mouthed kiss. He even gets brave and gives a few little kitten licks at Tony’s mouth which earns him a tight hand in his hair, and another scrabbling at his bare chest. “Hi,” Peter cuts in, when he pulls back to breathe, punctuating it with a little peck.

“Hi.”

“Remind me to brush my teeth after this,” Peter jokes. He kisses at the side of Tony’s neck in breathy little bursts, trailing down.

“I cannot possibly over-emphasize how much I don’t- unh. I don’t mind,” Tony manages haltingly. “Fuck, you’re so good at this, Peter. A natural.”

The praise _sings_ through him. “Try,” he says shortly. He pushes Tony’s shirt up over his belly, up to his pecs. He kisses there too. Kisses the nanotech unit. “Can you even feel that?”

“Not the nipples. Nerve damage. But the reactor, or whatever. Housing unit. Yeah. It’s like a touch lamp. Change the capacitance by touching it, and it ups the charge a little bit. Not enough to hurt or else supervillains would be constantly feeling me up, but. Yeah, s’good.”

Peter kisses it again, even as he spreads his hand out over Tony’s abdomen possessively. His stomach jumps under his palm. “When’s the last time someone touched you like this?” he ghosts out, moving further south and breathing over Tony’s crotch.

“A long time,” answers Tony, as Peter hums and gets to work sucking the stains out of the surrounding fabric. “Oh, _fuck._ Uhhhh, yeah, rebound after Pepper. One time thing.”

Peter hums again, occupied.

“Do you taste yourself? I bet you taste so good. You looked _so_ good, baby,” Tony tells him, settling back into his role as the world’s best purveyor of sexy talk. Peter doesn’t mind. He’s always loved Tony’s voice, and it only gets more gravel in it the closer Peter gets to his cock.

He’s seen it before, of course. Tony has at _least_ three sex tapes, but they’re old. It’s been years since Peter dared to watch them. He wants the real thing.

It’s easy enough to get Tony uncovered, especially when Tony lifts his hips to help. He hisses when his cock makes contact with the air. Peter mouths at the tip, trying to be soothing, and the whole thing jumps against his lips. It’s very gratifying especially when paired with Tony’s hands knitting themselves into Peter’s hair. “God, I can’t wait to do this to you. Wanna taste you for myself, wanna blow your fuckin’ mind.”

Peter likes the sound of that, but he likes the warm, inexorable push of Tony down his throat as he sinks down even more. His mouth waters around Tony’s dry length, and he uses his tongue to great effect. He’s wanted to do this for longer than is strictly legal.

On the bob up, Peter disconnects himself from Tony’s dick briefly and entirely so he can nuzzle and rub the outside of his cheek along it, now that it’s nice and wet. He saw that in porn once, and always wanted to see if it felt good to both parties. “Mr. Stark,” he murmurs, because yeah. He saw that in a porn once too. A themed one.

“Jesus,” Tony pants, pulling Peter up by his grip in Peter’s hair, lifting his head to let his eyes rove over what’s sure to be smears of spit and pre all over Peter’s face. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

Peter moves away from Tony’s hand to return to what he was doing. Tony lets him, head falling back on Peter’s pillow—which he’s stolen—with a groan. “Definitely,” Peter tells him. “Gonna make you come, sir.”

There’s a tiny blurt of fluid at that, which Peter readily rubs over his mouth for lube as he takes Tony in his mouth again. 

Maybe there’s something to this dirty talk thing.

After that, Peter doesn’t stop again, and just works Tony’s cock in and out of his mouth, occasionally shaking his head or pointing his tongue under the head to make Tony’s thighs shake under his hands.

It doesn’t take long before Peter feels like their pulses are in time with each other, before he feels a steady thrum through Tony’s cock into his lips, into his brain, behind his eyelids. Peter _knew_ he would be good at this. He knew it. Now he wants the proof.

He steadies himself with his left hand on the bed, the inside of his wrist against the top of Tony’s twitching thigh. It’s strangely just as intimate as the cocksucking, feeling the man’s leg hair there against his sensitive skin and veins. With his right, Peter supplements his bobbing motions with a tight, milking grip.

Tony gasps, his hands flying away from Peter’s hair, presumably so he doesn’t rip it out at the root.

“Fucking, _Christ._ I- you. You gotta pull off now, baby, if you don’t wanna swallow, I. You don’t have to, but- _fuck, I’m gonna come, Peter._ ”

Peter answers that warning by simply not stopping. As soon as the first jet of come hits the back of his throat, Peter takes his hand away and holds Tony’s hips down with both hands to prevent choking and just _drops_ himself down at the mouth to take it all. He slurps up Tony’s cock to make sure he gives him the full measure of his orgasm inside Peter’s mouth.

It’s the sexiest he’s ever felt. The most _powerful._

When Peter pulls off and settles back on his side of the mattress, sans pillow no less, he tries to give Tony space to come down.

Tony’s not having it, though. He sits up and struggles out of his pushed-up shirt, pulls his sweatpants back on and spins open the top of his fancy glass water bottle cylinder thing. He takes a long drink and then hands it off to Peter. “Stay hydrated, honey. I think I need a little more sleep after having my brain melted and cuddling is non-negotiable. Get it while the getting’s good.”

Peter smiles briefly into the curve of the fancy container, and drinks. “Sure thing.”

They share the pillow, and put the extra one between Tony’s knees so he can be the little spoon comfortably.

***

Natasha wakes them up by breezing through the living room to May’s bedroom. “Your aunt forgot some stuff,” she tells them.

Somehow they’ve switched and Peter is the little spoon. Tony’s wrapped around him like an invasive species of vine. He’s not mad about it. “What time s’it?”

“Nosy o’clock,” Tony mutters into Peter’s neck. He chooses not to address that comment. Is it true that if Nat hadn’t wanted to wake them up, they’d still be asleep? She’s perfectly capable of being silent. Yes, that’s true. But Peter should probably start deciding what he’s gonna do with his life now that he’s blown it up.

I mean, _worth it._ But also, this requires some thought.

“It’s afternoon. Pepper asked me to tell you that she wants you both to come back with me so we can all figure out the media and security strategies together. Half the team is already there. Clint and your buddy at Berkeley are gonna remote in. Thor’s starside with the idiots.”

“Got it, Nogoodnik. Let us shower, at least,” Tony puts in.

“We have to go get ‘Pool out of the penthouse, too. For Friday’s sake at least,” Peter adds.

Natasha takes a step back. There’s very little love lost between her and the merc currently occupying Tony’s residence. “Fine. You take care of that, and I’ll snag Leeds from his house. Meet you in Esopus?”

Peter yawns and stretches, and really doesn’t care if he has bedhead. Their position is compromising enough as it is. “You need a ride, though? Ned doesn’t have a car.”

“I’ll send Happy in a Towncar for you two,” Tony decides. “Peter can ride shotgun on one of mine. Something more fun.”

“I’ll bet he can,” Nat says sweetly. Peter throws a pillow at her and she darts toward the door. It misses her by a mile. “Have fun washing up, boys. If he hurts you, Peter, I’ll have his head. Both of them.”

“What if _I_ hurt him?”

“Same deal!” she calls on her way out with a bag of May’s things. Peter likes that.

“Valid!”

***

It’s a long, long weekend of figuring things out. Wade was happy to play his part, and makes a full recovery of course, but he now presents the problem of constantly asking Tony for Friday’s hand in marriage. He’s really into how she kept giving him electric shocks every time he tried to break into Tony’s bedroom.

“Really high voltage. I think I could see my skeleton the one time I tried it with the lights out. My kind of woman,” he tells Peter over grilled cheeses on the roof of the compound. Peter pushes him off the edge of the roof after making sure none of the compound staff, the team, or any bystanders are below.

“You ship it!” Deadpool calls before he hits the ground.

In other news, Peter gets a call from Harry Osborn and his job back. “I had no idea that he was that way, Mr. Parker. He’s always been accepting of my preferences, and so has Menken, but I guess it was just lip service. And I want you to know that I’ve always only thought they were introducing me to their employees who were around my age to keep me visible as part of their succession plan. I never had any hint of anything else.”

Peter wants to believe him. He likes Harry. They have friends in common, even, through Gwen’s social circle. “Okay. But what he did is still wrong.”

“Absolutely,” Harry says, without hesitation. “The board is in the process of voting him out. He’s been a liability for a long time and they’ve hesitated to have me succeed him because of my health, but that’s no longer a tenable excuse, especially given that we share the same condition. They’ll be installing Menken as a sort of advisor, for age-related optics primarily for our boomer shareholders with me taking over as CEO and majority shareholder at fifty-one points. Menken has fifteen percent, a legacy; he’s our oldest board member.”

“Alright,” Peter hedges. “What does that have to do with me?”

“Stark has ten percent and a proxy seat that my notes say he usually lets his head R&D people fill, though it seems it’s been empty a while unless you know something about a Mr. Quentin Beck that I don’t. Thus the annual intra-industry meeting that went so spectacularly wrong. Ryan Chemical, Roxxon, Fisk Financial, Hammer Industries, they’ve all got a finger in the pie. Oscorp has people on their boards as well. SI is the only company with the heft to keep all its channels clear of interference,” Harry explains. “Welcome to business.”

“Sounds like one sinister gangbang, not gonna lie,” Peter admits, and Harry laughs. It’s a pleasant sound. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

“Not if everyone’s in the same boat. Like I said, your man Stark is the only one not playing the same game. Also, they’ve all signed COI waivers, so legally, everyone is aware we’re all out to screw each other and it can’t be termed a conspiracy.”

Peter whistles. “Again, how can I help?”

“Well, you’re Spider-Man, right?”

“Right…” It feels weird to say it out loud, still.

“Well, that’s _why_ SI is able to stay out of this clusterfuck. No one wants to play fast and loose with a superhero, sworn to protect and serve only justice. They have Iron Man. Oscorp needs _you._ I can get you five percent if you drop the charges and make a statement about Night Monkey; the board will approve that. They’d be crazy not to.”

Internally, Peter admits to himself that five percent is either nothing or a lot. _Five percent of what? Revenue? Net? Stocks? Are those the same thing?_ He’s a scientist, not a businessman.

Harry continues, “Have Stark join forces with you, appoint you as his proxy and that’ll be two votes total for you plus anyone else who wants to fall in line behind a hero. Your five and his ten counter Menken’s fifteen. We could have him out by the end of the year, me as CEO, you and Raxton and maybe someone new to head up Chemical Engineering. I’ll re-absorb five of what Menken leaves behind, and you and Stark can split the remaining ten.”

“I-” Peter barely knows if that’s possible, much less legal. He needs to talk to Tony. “I’ll need to talk to Tony,” he informs Osborn.

There’s a pause. “Of course, yes. Liaise with Mr. Stark. Take your time. The tactical fabric is all but finished anyway, so I’ll tell HR to file your absence as paid vacation. Is two weeks enough to come to a decision?”

Peter tries to steady his breathing. He has no idea. “If it isn’t, I’ll put in for FMLA. My aunt hasn’t been feeling well, so I’m taking care of her anyway.”

“I hope she feels better,” Harry tells him sincerely. “And again, you have my deepest apologies on behalf of my father and his partner. I’m twenty-one this year; it’s time I acted like it. I won’t allow prejudice or harassment in my company.”

 _Tony was twenty-one when he became a CEO,_ Peter thinks. He wonders suddenly if Obadiah Stane was anything like Donald Menken. “Watch out for Menken, if he gets wind of this. He, uh. Well, I get this tingle around him. Not a good one.”

“Understood, Mr. Parker. Spider-Man. Thank you.”

“Call me Peter.”

Peter can hear Harry’s smile even over the phone. “Thanks, Peter.”

Tony, for his part, is not at all pleased when he hears… but not necessarily because the deal is bad.

The shape his face is making tells Peter that Tony is incandescently upset, but not much more than that. Not _why._

 _Hmmmph. At least I told him this time,_ Peter wisely refrains from pointing out.

“I was going to make a grand gesture!” Tony explains to him, finally. “I was going to go big or go home, Happy! I was going to make him a Junior Head of something or other!”

“Don’t fall for it, Peter,” Happy tells him. They’re on their way home to Manhattan after spending the weekend upstate dealing with all this. Peter had gotten his fill of fresh Hudson Valley air and off-the-books therapy with Sam Wilson, both. He feels better, or at least he _would_ if he knew what Tony was thinking.

“Why not?” Peter asks the man driving. Happy always has the tea, and Peter trusts his experience.

“First, he makes you a Head of something. Then, next thing you know, you’re on Main Squeeze detail. He made me follow Pepper around for an age, then put me in charge of your whole spastic situation. I didn’t need that stress! You’re too young to be prehypertensive. Plus, I don’t think either of us wanna see how young whoever he replaces you with is gonna be.”

“Uh, gross,” Peter says, hitting his cue perfectly and smiling. He knows Happy is just joking around for Tony’s benefit, and they’re in on it together.

“You’re not _listening_ , Hogan. He’s never getting replaced. I was gonna do a grand gesture, _like I said._ Now I’m gonna have to go to Plan B and settle for merely a _big_ gesture. Big is less than grand,” Tony opines petulantly.

“You expect us to listen when you talk?” Peter quips, but Tony just swats him with a rolled-up copy of _The Bugle_ they’d been discussing, before Peter broke his news. “Also, is the gesture bigger than the giant bunny I saw in the compound storage warehouse that one time? Because, no. No, Tony. I’m saying ‘no’.”

Tony swats him again, this time against the chest, right over his nipple. Peter does his best not to react. “It is… technically about as big as the bunny. Horizontally speaking. But I promise you will not be lacking in storage,” he man informs him.

Peter has no idea what _that_ is supposed to mean, but he has other thoughts. “Also I ask you, sir, why can’t the big gesture be finally putting your dick in my ass like your average gay couple? Hmmm?”

“La la la la la, I didn’t hear shit!” Happy says loudly from the driver’s seat. “Jesus Christ, my heart, Peter. My goddamn blood pressure.”

Peter smiles out the window.

***

When Happy finally drops them off at the Tower parking garage, grumbling all the way about installing partitions in every one of Tony’s four-seaters, Maserati GranTurismo or not, Jerome is on duty.

“Um, hi,” Peter says awkwardly.

“Tell the nice man what you need to tell him.”

“I’m here to be signed in to Mr. Stark’s residence,” Peter recites dutifully as his face heats.

“For what purpose?” Tony prompts, smirking his way towards the elevator.

“To make Happy, well… happy. And to avoid any more misunderstandings, intentional on my part or otherwise, out of respect for your job, Mr. Jerome, sir.”

Jerome looks like he’s about to crack up. Peter would very much like Dr. Strange to step through a portal and pull him into a fire-fight right now. “Alright, then. I think Mr. Hogan’s aware since he just drove away, so I’ll just put you in the log. You go on through, kid.”

“Thank you,” Peter says succinctly. Mr. Stark is holding the elevator for him.

“Yeah, thanks, Jerry!” Tony calls. “Now, Peter, you get upstairs, get in bed, and get ready for me; I need some serious stress relief after this weekend.”

Behind him, Jerome cackles.

Peter gets his revenge by re-enacting their first kiss while Friday takes them up. Tony doesn’t seem to mind.

When Peter enters the penthouse, it’s the same as ever, and it gives him the same thrill. The only thing that’s different is there’s a little heart-shaped box on the bar.

 _Oh. The big gesture._ Peter approaches, looking back only once to see Tony leaning in the archway that visually separates the bar area from the rest of the living room. Peter turns to fully face him, taking the last few steps to the bar backward until a stool hits the backs of his legs. “I love you, too,” Peter murmurs. “No matter what this is or isn’t, I love you too.”

Peter sits down and spins to face his gift before he has to confront Tony’s reaction. Not that he thinks it’s bad, it’s just that he doesn’t want to start crying like a girl before he can even open the box. At least one of them has to keep it together.

When Peter lifts the lid off the box, what he finds there—nestled amongst pinwheel cookie crumbs—is a key. He stares at it as Tony comes to sit down beside him.

“It’s not for here, surely? There isn’t a lock, it’s just Friday.”

“Don’t call me Shirley. Also, no. It’s not for here,” Tony tells him. “Look.”

Tony pulls out a few old photos from the pocket inside his jacket. They’re… they’re of Peter’s parents. And Peter. He’s just a baby in them.

“Oh.”

“May gave me these. Well, Natasha did. On May’s orders. Based on everything your aunt told me, Friday was able to track down the apartment. It’s over in Murray Hill, not too far from here. Some 1980s development; it’s been redone since then. There’s a pool. They were doing well for themselves, like you said.”

“Oh,” Peter says again. Tony’s gonna have to be the one that doesn’t cry, he suddenly realizes, throat tight.

“I found their old unit. It’s just a one bedroom but the room is a good size. They probably had you in a crib next to your mom. That’s why you remember them coming home and checking on you; they probably wouldn’t have woken you up if you’d been in a separate room.”

Peter’s powerless to keep his voice from breaking. “Fuck, Tony, I-”

“I know, baby. I know.”

“You bought it?”

Tony touches Peter’s jaw until Peter turns his face inward to meet his hand. Tony thumbs over Peter’s right eyebrow like he knows the nerve behind it is raw and jangling with Peter’s effort at holding back tears. “No. _You_ bought it. I used the college fund I set up with you as a beneficiary when you were fifteen. You never filled out the paperwork to take ownership of it, so I was able to cash it out and offer it to the current owners as your proxy. Through my own proxy, so no one will know Spider-Man lives there. Everything else is in your name.”

Peter swallows and Tony drops his hand. “Why?”

“You need a place that’s just for you. We’ll figure out a safe place for May, but you need someplace where you can do what you want. Fuck employee housing. Work for Oscorp. Don’t work for Oscorp. Be with me, don’t be with me. I always want you to have a home in New York, no matter what you decide you want to do with your life, Peter. This is your city.”

His heart pounds and soars in near-equal measure. “I’m glad you understand that.”

"Me too,” Tony tells him tenderly. “Plus, this way I'll always know how to get a hold of you, no matter whatever else you dress up as, or what assholes you go to work for. I can stomach anything else if I know you’re safe and I can find you."

"Will you want to? Find me, that is."

Tony looks at him then, and it's the kind of look that almost makes Peter's legs shake from sheer sexual energy. "I can think of some reasons I might need to reach you at home, yeah."

Peter picks up the key from the box and finds it’s just an ordinary key. Peter expected it to be heavier, somehow. “Can we go there now?”

Tony laughs at him. “No, baby, there’s a little thing called an escrow period. Yours is short because it was a cash purchase… I admit I may have gone a little overboard with your college fund. You could have had tuition on Mars at that price. But the sellers still need time to move out and we’ll get inspections done to make sure there’s nothing to complain about. The building is nice though. We could check that out tomorrow. I had Barton take a ton of pictures too, if you want my input on any remodeling. I’m still picturing those eyes around dark wood and firelight and really fucking expensive stonework. Fuck,” he adds in a near-growl.

It’s Peter’s turn to chuckle a bit. “You had Clint do this?”

“Yeah, undercover. That’s why he had to remote into the strat meeting. The whole team loves you, Pete, I wish you’d get that through your thick skull.”

“I thought he’d be at home with his family.”

“Eh, even old dogs gotta stretch their legs every once in a while,” Tony explains. “He was the one who was the most disconcerted about you and me, you know. You’d think it’d be Rogers but he grew up in the gay Mecca of Depression Era Brooklyn. Clint… gosh. Lila’s not much younger than you, ya know? He somewhat aggressively suggested we just be friends. I told him to relax about it and go bother Wanda and Vis.”

At that, Peter really does start cry-laughing, shoving the box and key aside and putting his head and arms down on the bar. “Oh yeah, best friends. Buddies. Pals,” he snorts.

“Hate to break it to ya, old buddy, old pal,” Tony starts, even as his hand slides under Peter’s shirt and up his spine, “but I already got a best friend. Rhodey totally wants to get that beer with you soon, by the way. Maybe on your birthday, no fake ID necessary.”

Peter sits up and Tony’s hand slides away. They look at each other and all Peter can feel is pure happiness. “I hope to have more exciting plans for my birthday, _friend._ ”

“Yeah? You wanna gimme a totally platonic preview of said plans?”

“Only if you totally platonically show me your bedroom, sir.”

Tony needs no further convincing, but when Peter finally stops kissing him enough to actually step through the doorway, he notices there’s what can only be termed a _mess_ of rose petals on the bed.

“Uh…” 

“I did not do that, and neither did Barton. Unless he’s yearning for a mercy killing and I don’t know it.”

Peter just sighs. “Friday, homegirl, _why_ did you let Wade Wilson in here?”

Friday seems happy to be addressed, if her electronic chirp and lilt is anything to go by. “Love is very important, Peter; some movies say it’s the _most_ important. No one ever recalibrated my logical core to decide otherwise!”

Peter nods like that makes sense and waits for the rest.

“Also, I’m not-a-girl.”

(Fair enough.)

**Author's Note:**

> You guys I actually finished something in a semi-timely manner. Where's my parade???
> 
> It would not have ever happened without the help of my collaborator, Redlink, and my constant Person of Interest, tangodoodles. They are both seriously the smartest, coolest human beings around and they get Peter and Tony (and me, for that matter) in such a marvelous way, I love you guys so much. High five.


End file.
